Learning the Craft of Land

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Learning the Craft of Land


My first caesura
           was a clay gully
in a corn field,
           a place to pause

and breathe in
           metered green
heat. The first
           stanza I worked

with my own
           hands—a yellow-
leafed quatrain
           of tobacco rows,

moving straight
           as destiny toward
the blackberry-
           spangled fence

and turn. I bore
           doves, quails, fish,
frogs, melons,
           and beans home

like a personal
           lexicon of flesh
for body
           and soul,

gathered flint,
           points, and pottery
shards to build
           a metaphor

for being
           buried, but
never ceasing
           to be.

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