the calendar in a mother’s home are the flowers on the table

Do not bury me far from the leaves of the forest floor. Let me decay quickly                                            to live on in the lives of others.

Good is happening Lest we forget

Food and fiber. Farmer and rancher. Music player and dancer.

when all is fog pale and gray numb from lack of texture because there is none

From the cathedral of soil I am drawn to the roots of plants. Through cambium I rise, the sun beckons. The winds move me, rivers in the sky.

Farming is good fences Farming is sacrifice