Alfalfa

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.

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