by Clarence Wolfshohl

I’ve worked my garden for thirty years,
built rich soil on the slab of clay
like the islanders of Inishmore
who composted seaweed into soil
over centuries; but at bottom
it is potter’s clay—the color
of terra cotta. I know a creek bank
with streaks of grey and a red as bright
as jetting blood, squeezed finger thin
by the meters-high moraine when ice
capped us here before seeds breathed.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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