Can you really not know
who I'm thinking of when I'm
out on our land
After all these years?
You can't really
I'm thinking of my father, rest in peace,
and my father's father, rest in peace,
and my great grandfather, rest in peace,
and my birth mother's father, rest in peace,
and my birth father, live in peace,
and all those Jamaican farmers from his line, rest in peace,
and all those slaves and sharecroppers
and earth magicians from my fathers' lines,
rest in peace,
who stand over my shoulder when
I'm Opening the Earth,
who whisper music, whisk
mosquitoes away from my
ears so I can hear it more clearly,
who show the way.
I'm thinking of Dutch clay--
Maine too has so much
putty, tart and heavy and fertile--
of typical Dutch kut weer--
Maine too has so many
overcast, water-logged days throughout
the growing season--
of Dutch tulips, and green-
houses and stone barns and boers--
Maine has so many farmers and rocks
and plastic-covered laboratories
in pursuit of the perfect growing thing--
flower, herb, vegetable, tree.
I'm thinking of the Netherlands.
Your mother land, the mother
ship of the trade that
brought my ancestors to
these western hemisphere shores,
these craggy bleeding shores that
dart into this other half's, this other land's
earth, desperate for deep, tender love.
I'm thinking of you--
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