Mother, are your pastures
still trembling from sorrow, your knuckles
on fire from hunger, belly taut?

Your children came in to this world weeping
and leave weeping, your hem never tending
their cheek or brow. Still, we are in love
with your arms.

There is comfort here
in this river, as thin and swift
as your fingers,
comfort while our ears lie at the crux
of trunk and root as if it were the sweet cavern
of your neck and shoulder. On fertile ground
we dream in lies.

Mother, are your fields
still trembling?