Max Patch, Mt.

There is only wind
through my strands,
across my neck
soaring flies
a scratch at the neck
cool bath of seaside
without the residue of salt
lush earth
singing the song of harvest:
farmers taking heed
accelerating for the imminent
pause
of frozen earth
The ground is a spindle of life
unraveling in buzz and chirp
skin close to home
mind, miles away
a mountain bee
asking of my business
a nod with pleasantry
I am enveloped by the breath
of my mother
as her words lay across my
back into my dark places
soft palms holding
my forearms from labor
She tells me gentle
and sweet--
of the rocks of human words
and the mountain laurel honey
of women to come.