Garden

(For Ahila)

the cedar sways

rain blots a petal of sand at my feet

An ochre birthmark

        
The image prints

A white flesh rune

in my freckle blue head

        
At the roots of my fingers

The knot stirs

moves into the black thick fountainpen

onto the page


With this ink

I irrigate my ochre children

        
My cedar grows strong


I shall carve it like a totem

Robert James Berry