Eastern Soil

In dedication to my father-in-law

Sleep of the Turkish hazel.
Rest in peace between the trees.
The large, fruited juniper speaks in kindness
Of a man who left their garden
To grow prosperous children.
The roots here still speak of time in child steps.

Migration is far, fear and far—
To grow your children between buildings.
To leave your woman to harvest apricots between cement.
The hot planks are coarse and empty in strife.
Hope walks on the other side.

Where the oriental spruces travel west in search of higher ground,
Bodies return to die in Eastern soil.
Why, find joy.
Your fruit grows here.

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