by Jens Alfke ⟿ December 20, 2001

We stepped out our back door into splendor:
– the rain-choked hills casting off their muddy carapace of topsoil
– uprooted trees shedding their last dead leaves like ticker-tape
– all of up heading for down.
All the wet rot of the rotating Earth converged on our yard
but was held back by cinderblock walls
with a splash.

Our house lay alone at the foot of a brown slope devoid of landmarks:
a virgin field of stumps, poles, and spinning tires.
Anything might be planted in that field and grow.
Any possibility might be granted in a new equilibrium.
Like two children we held hands and stepped over the wall,
digging our bare feet into dark humus, taking root.