So I’ll take our good fortunes to my grave
To be planted like seeds beneath the earth

Their fingers reach for inverted cities
Like roots that feed the hungry above them

Our wills and wisdom torn into scraps
With hope to nourish the soil and feed

And I’ll think of a cold November dusk
Growth hidden, ready or not here we come

When you uncovered your eyes and spun around
A few extra rotations for good luck

How long have I been crouched behind azaleas
A home of sorts, fragrant, safe, and evolving

As years pass we go on brooding and
How long would the chicken lay around here?