under stars
under rain
root vegetables—
fields of them,
hideous things—
hide
in the tremulous cool September soil
like the face
of a master
inside his painting
growing, siphoning, absorbing,
waiting—
like you have
and I
did—as schoolchildren
for the soon-to-come time
when we might meet
the sky
and their hands
unafraid
and finally
be worth more
than our weight.
