The ground here is so rich
the fence posts took root.
Now I have a wall of wood,

walnut trees, their perfumed 
fruits for playthings, staining 
my fingertips and face.

Nettle in the pocket keeps me
safe from lightning; for a pillow
drives fever from the room.

Sainted statues shake their heads
but I keep retting. If the tumbril
travels slow enough, if I finish,

firewood will burst into bloom.

Bio: Sonya Johanson