Praise

When I forced the flat land with seed
I hovered mother-like over the green uprising,
and routed smartweed, thwarted nettles,
mounded each folded shoot with earth,
nursed anxiety at my muscled breast.
When the harvest tide arose
I rode the waves of ripe grain
and filled my granaries—
now I can let the fields go.

Now I am free to close the gate
and turn and embrace my wayward acre
where willows wet their feet in a pool
at the tile’s mouth, and flourish there
cattails, gentian, alder berries;
there the fence upholds the goldenrod
and black-eyed susans, the rank bull thistle
brooms his purple across the air,
Michaelmas daisies and yellow asters
and blue vervain win me with color—
these few wild moments of life
to stand dumb before, then praise
with naming.