*

I walk around my

small land where trees

abound and I have

a restlessness this year

I never had as if

my garden and I have lost

communication

.

but I attend the land a lot

.

I sit waiting as at

the bed of a sick child to

whom nobody hands

water exhausted

I tighten my hands one

with the other in

silent pain I look down

.

to the aging skin

to the black rim under

my nails its dirt

sticking to me my garden’s

way to hold onto me

.

.