I crawl through the corn, like a child
which in a way is who I am in the fields
the roots of who I am--woven in the earth and its rhythms
I watch jam and dolls and trellised tomatoes created from what is grown
I watch how the locals watch the land for rots and weather and time
to tell when it's dry, sick, when we plant, and when we take it from the ground
I watch the weeds wander up the stalks, mirror the crops, grow with passion...displaced plants
I am a child who grew up with fruits and vegetables labeled from two states to the west or across the border
not grown outside our door, covered with our land's dirt
that trickles into our house on boots
engrained permanently on my hands
like the woman I admire greatly with calloused hands, lively spirits, and a deep understanding for survival, work, and simplicity
