Sunlight through her thin hair,
hem of her dress lifting in wind.

Sweat down my temples;
bluegrass sneeze.

In one gloved hand,
her trowel, wedged

beneath a clump of rhizomes.
Waft of wormy loam.

Her other soiled glove
gripping stiff leaves

manufacturing food
for next year's flowers --

In one motion,
up.

Crunch of tearing roots.
Shook dirt click on sack paper.

The clump handed to me
to dunk in a bucket

of shallow water, to separate
with a sharp knife.

The firmest, plumpest bud,
the grandmother.

Its closest offset,
taking the deepest slice.

With trimmed roots,
spread out in shade,

dozens of mummied buds.
Me beside her, digging

a new trench, fulfilling
some purpose of an infinitely

complex will: our instinct
for fragrance dissolved

in June air, the hillside
green with humid transmutations.

Burying each rhizome
just below the surface.

Leaves facing out,
the direction of growth

away from one another.
Working-in scoops of compost,

a handful of bone meal.
Firmly tamping the soil.

Knowing this cultivation
does not explain life.

And yet, the brief flush
of blue and purple flowers.

I snap a picture of my nieces throwing themselves over
the hay bales embellishing the rustic front of leaning barn
that serves as seasonal store; out back I stop them forever
beside themselves to be choosing their own jack-o'-lantern
from acres of competition with dozens of other kids.
They climb up and slide down the giant ones; I snap
my brother, crinkling brow, calling for them to be careful.
Leaf and brush smoke from a neighboring farmer's bonfire
burns my nose, mix with pungent old barn wood and
blackened vats pressing apple cider from gnarled orchard
edging the pumpkin patch, earthy tweak of air still called
simply October. Late afternoon Cezanne sun planks
complement the ruddy tones of leaves and tall gulch grasses,
rowdy pumpkin oranges, tart apple reds and yellows
(all of which clash with everything I own) I buy
by the bushelfuls to decorate without restraint, even straw
and twisted grape vine wreath entwined with bittersweet,
acorns, pine cones, waxed leaves, calico ribbon, even
bouquets of thistles and seed pods, painted gourds,
hand-carved bowls of nuts and dried fruits and potpourri,
Indian corn cornucopia complete with pumpkins and apples
rooted in my ancestor's bones buried two centuries deep
in this soil -- this apple crisp tastes exactly the way
my grandmother's house smelled, even her books, and this
warm loaf of bread, like hers, could feed the multitudes.
No need to tell my nieces to pose attempting to embrace
"the biggest hugest pumpkin in the universe"
they plan to carve and camp in tonight. My brother
has extra muscles helping him maneuver the monster
into his jeep. I grab a few more shots, then
finish loading my harvest -- it's so easy,
maybe too easy, what the ghosts strained for.
The sun nestles down, pulling river haze up over the hills.
"Evenings're getting nippy. Winter's just around the corner,"
Grandmother speaks through the stranger at the cash register.
Words tossed like an apron of seeds.
I blink back tears. Under sod and scythe,
in pulpy heartwood's sticky sap, more palpable
than this camera I hold in my hands so like hers,
there's still life, always this life, gathered up
in the basket of crusts after the miracle.

 
COMMUNION

First we break bread -- the body
of Christ, your body, my body
broken open in making love
this ritual of baking bread,
the same bread cultivated
by our gatherer grandmothers
for centuries, perennial miracle
of rain and sun suffused grain,
whole nurturing earth infusing hands
kneading flour, yeast, a pinch of salt,
this voluptuous dough -- it's easy
to convince you we know
how this feels, slow heat
letting it rise, pushed down
letting it rise again, and again
like a dream awakening, the fragrance
of fermenting yeast and finally
this buttery flesh pulled apart,
steam wafting delicious --
I put a piece of mine
in your mouth, a piece of yours
melts on my tongue -- Is this
not the Word of God? How easily
the world takes for granted this bread
transmuting into our bodies.
Warmed by our sacred blessing
we give each other
grace, our sighs
leavened with one Presence,
praising God for simple bread.

And now, the pruning done,
we gather together the choicest
clusters of Catawba grapes, sweet
purplish red fruits, just foxy enough
to make us pucker, a slip
of tongue working a slip of skin
from juicy flesh, working
out between the teeth the seeds
we'll plant in our own bed:
the seeds two sets of earthy
women's hands midwife, working
one earth, one work watering,
fertilizing, mothering the vine
up its stake, pruning the branches
into a shape improvising the natural,
granted -- this odd
shape of crucifixion, resurrection,
all in one, and then these sweet
tarts crushed in my grandmother's
aged oak vat, strained at last into
your greatgrandmother's dusky bottles,
and finally now in our musty cellar
beneath the lush stained glass
Pan piping to splashing nymphs
old ritual blows the dust and pops
the cork -- All our labor distills
to this essence: fruit bouquet,
clink of glass, burgundy light
spilling on our hands, this pucker,
luscious laughter, heat fermenting
in our veins, cool sensuous draft
from the shadows, a touch
of lightheadedness, ankles brushing,
eyes shining, candleglow
all penumbra around us -- Is this
not the blood of Christ
flushing your neck like summer,
our hands clasping the way vines
twining through leaves fuse
into clusters of ripening grapes?

MANNA

To write like Hopkins! Crunchy, juicy rounds
Of chewy hallelujah! chocolate praise,
The flesh's ambrosia dripping awe-drenched glaze,
Amazing scoops of grace-dipped whipped cream mounds
Expounding love's zest, sticky licks past bounds
Of priss-prim piety... -- His heart's malaise
Would fast, but youth's dazed aftertaste must raise
The ghost: Lush manna-stricken lust rebounds
In tongues of fallen angels: bitter yeast
With vinegar washed down transmute his odd
Communion, fruit and grain consume their priest,
The Father's fodder roots in seed-bare sod,
We taste his Word with words, and while we feast,
His bread is broken, wine is spilled to God.

Add incense of frankincense and myrrh to your bowl,
Let flakes of gold in oil be stars reconfiguring this night,
Transfiguring your destiny, let your stars in their shadows this night burn
Against the terrors of darkness, let terror's power spill
Its seed in the desert; add seed and sand, a thorn, its drop of blood
To your bowl from the finger pointing a circle for each savior pierced.

With the single candle on your altar, light an oak stick, pierce
All four corners of darkness till its tip falls char in your bowl;
In your chalice of dark wine mingle a drop of your own warm blood,
Drink your fill, then lift the cup against the plagues of this night;
Let the beast in his infinite masks of light and shadow into your bowl spill,
For each brand seared on innocent flesh let him a thousandfold burn.

Let your lust for light ignite your radiance; let your eyes burn
As you light a circle of thirteen candles around your altar that pierce
The night with their new zodiac, filling the shadows with radiance you spill
Into your task, then pour one candle's wax around the rim of your bowl,
Sealing your power against the sniffing beast stalking you this night,
Remembering the beast devours your flesh, feasts on your own warm blood,

Remembering the beast devours all flesh, feasts on all blood,
Remembering each instrument of torture, whip, stab, tear, lash, burn,
Remembering terror, the scourged soul dragged down through the blackest strata of night,
Remembering berating, beating, molestation, rape, murder, screams that pierce
The howling trough of hell -- down to every selfish whisper burn them in your bowl;
Hollow a pit in the dirt and into its pitch let all the ash from your bowl spill.

Let beasts who slaughter mystic witches choke on the souls they spill,
Strangle on their cloaks of dark light, drown in communion with their own blood:
Lay the charred oak stick and your athame crossing the rim of the cleansed bowl;
Remember the essence of your life and all lives within it continually burn;
Burn an oak leaf in supplication, let your incantations burn the pierced
Crucifix held up flaming against demons, white-hooded, galloping through this night.

Your bowl erupts, holy mountain spilling spewing fiery blood rivers that burn
Souls like chaff. Though your prophet's fire bloods your flesh, burning and pierced,
Your spirit dwells in its cleansed bowl, protected from the terrors of this night.