Crumbling
behind the clean elastic
worm, mounding for the muffled
mole, this block of
dirt with rock ribs bulking
hard beneath, and if you lean
your head to them—a breathing;
blast of hosed water bright and
bold, brimming above the child’s
square candid head, streaming
down the bare resounding belly to
circle round toes buttoned in the
mud, steaming up the ditches; blue
white tapered supper egg eased
out from under the
soliloquizing
hen, her cool breast springy
with slick pink-spined
feathers; tomatoes, just
one fitting to a palm,
aromatic, with juices
moving beads beneath the
skin, heavy, tangy, tawny,
tumbling
to the touch—Who gave us so much?