We dig in deep and toss our care
into the crisp and thinning air around us.
It’s still dark and the ground’s still dry.
It should be lighter now.
We planted seeds and watered them.
Removed the weeds beneath the stem that bound us.
They’re still there. And they’re growing high.
We say we don’t know how.
Both rain and fire, too damp and hot—
a threat to soil and yield. The rot, it found us.
We pray we’ve not lost all the rye—
A symbol. Hope. A vow.
We’re foraging for remnants here,
but they’ll not be uncovered where they drowned us.
We’ll need to find new land and sky.
To sow new dreams. To plow.
True love is never lost to time.
We mourn, we sing, we paint and rhyme to ground us,
then stretch to pull each other nigh…
to mend the breaking bough.
Tara Jaye Frank
We are the helpers, learning – together – to put ourselves before the world.
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