by Bryan Thao Worra

The farmers, the gardeners of the world
    Bend to the earth on every continent

    Seeds in hand, holes in the soil like
    A hungry mouth dark with mystery.

Touch her with a word from the page, she smiles.
Touch her with a hand at night,

                      A million things might happen,

Like a young shoot climbing from the ground
Who might become

               A field, a shade forest, a bit of soup

                            On a complicated evening 
                            When she needs it most.