In the garden, I sit and watch my hens peck and scratch at the dirt looking for worms and bugs. A breakfast to turn their yolks a bright rich orange. Leaning against a fence post, the leaves in the tree above shade my face. A cool shadow protecting against sun rays and heat. Cucumber vines curl as tendrils around wire and wood, climbing up a ladder of grace, yellow flowers opening up to bees. Deathly is the bloom that pushes out fruit toward ripening in time, falling to the ground alone, rotting, nourishing its grave. A staccato of rain on the earth, bullets piercing the ground, into a stream of blood of homage and sorrow. Surrounded by sleep, the earth is a tomb but cannot keep bones resting. The motion of earth’s turn toward blooming and dying, heavy seeds sit as headstones marking resurrection, moving death towards new life in the sun’s heat. I imagine you free of weapons and hates and the enmity of beasts where mortality does not weigh heavy on your blood-soaked roots and men renew their abuse with their bullets and fears. Birth of rising, the morning lights a brightness on the world perfect as breath. A luminous gathering. Newly risen, a green vine, a yellow flower, in the sun. Grown out of death’s deep darkness from brown earth, in a lighted country, waking to a new freedom that cannot be taken by man.