An old woman squats near the earth;
Takes some of it up and crushes the
Crust in her lined palms.
Her mind Holds to it:
Burnt bread, waspnests. Cricket legs.
She thinks of dry mullein and
Pollen on the feet of bees.
Dust drifts down; powdering her
White legs and landing on
Yolk-colored toe nails. Her pores bloom.
Each hair rising with the wind.
Through the shell of her skull and
Out the loosening knots of spine,
She drains into the plow's mark;
Dreams she is a seed.
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