Late in season, November,
And the first snow blessed each bulb finger pressed into
Deeper cool soil.
The fields quieted with fallen flakes
Broken only by the lamb’s cry,
Pleased and perhaps perplexed by his crown of white.
He gave a shake and laid the bridge of his face against my thigh.
The late farmer.
The novice in the field.
Thinking she had more Time
Until time itself had proved again the suspension of its own arms
To be finite.
My hands muddied with the mixture Of sweat, snow melt, and still sticky soils.
This one is for the dead,
This one is for woman unknown,
And this for my dear friend,
This one is for the breath of the Earth,
And she for the bees,
And this one is for the worm,
Another for celebration,
A hearty one for the inevitable whistle pig,
A bulb for marriage,
And she for ceremony,
And one for existence alone.
May you all stand for a world made more beautiful
By hands that dare to sow creation and hope into the soil, despite Ideal time, despite time at all.
May the Great Mother be happy to belly a new home for what is to Sprout with another Rotation.
Abby Rodriguez (November 2014)