My land is lush with
feral alfalfa that has
heard the cry of
dishonored soil. Taken
for weed, it is scab on
wound. It binds, holds,
seeds, dies, feeds. Rising
against the blight of
propriety, joining the
ways of the killdeer;
this year, four chicks and
their mama, with the
heart of the man, he
let the plant stand for
hiding from magpies and
ravens and humans. So
purple its blossom and
sweet to the tongue, no
horse could resist ‘til
colic twists the belly into
strife. Alfalfa, once
valued, once planted,
once harvest, alfalfa
forsaken as our life in the
garden.
