The earth gave in
to the shovel, slashing
a curve the distance
of conquest.
The softened clay
from last night’s rain
didn’t protest.
We stabbed
& stabbed, hollowed
out a cavity.
A new wound to heal
old wounds. Mend
old choices. Atone
old lives. Our soiled hands
wrapped around the still
slim trunk, her bare
roots a fibrous umber
uttering her species’
fortune. In fifty years,
what will these hands
have done?
We persisted,
broke history’s dirt,
crumbled hardened
pieces, dirtied
our hands raw
until the sapling’s
first chapter ended
in hope, interred alive
to redeem the living.
This poem first appeared in Common Threads (2021).
—
Shei Sanchez writes from her farm outside Athens, Ohio. Her work appears in many fine places, including Orchards Poetry Journal, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Women of Appalachia Project’s Women Speak Volumes 7 to 9, Les Delices Music Meditations Project, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Light Enters the Grove. A Best of the Net nominee, Shei can be found teaching yoga, writing in the woods, or meandering in the meadow with her goats.
