The Lord reigns in the root,
where the sweating neck of the she-earth
gilds the potters green blooming genesis.
A boiled yam is Blackfoot’s nose,
black with a thousand baobabs in it.
The bud of a thousand ages sparks in her,
of duress, of young spring hunger,
and she crackles
like the world beside the broad tan wadi valleys.
Her bark scatters birds; her silence lets them gather.
My girl only rests in anger,
when she lays on me like a wounded soldier.
And her warfare is accomplished
compressed, as a black professor
shining the foundation finds the footing
of the fertile minded students
broken-trunked and torn with
the collected aches of the shifting Texas soil.
She will not lay beside.
She would roll in asphalt in the road.
She is a thing of beauty imprinted with beauty;
the scale of her toes is built
to take the fullness of the field at speed.
The heat of the day her shepherd,
she the soot, the charcoal checkered.
Flies and drowsiness she hates,
but the butterfly air her wild thing, her fuel.
I tell her that the Lord reigns in a hollow,
shadow, our Lord who has stooped to us
from the Beginning,
and waits on an End. King without apostrophes,
Absolute, whose fliers have no cables.
Oh, still and blameless Spirit, caressing the bloody
Tree, thank you for grafting our many saplings,
black foundlings, into your Tree of hosts.