You can be sure the hand will pull you from the ground.
You can be sure.
No matter how longingly the earth presses against you,
No matter how sweet the mineral sips at the tips of your roots,
No matter how comfortable your somnolent, unchanging days,
When you are ripe, you will be taken.
In this slumbering time,
in this tiny dark
cradle,
you cannot imagine
sky
or the clouds
who splatter the surface above,
or even the green
lace of your own intricate leaves.
When the hand comes,
may your flesh
be sweet in surrender.
When the soil falls away from your snapping roots,
may you slide
easy into the light.
When you lie naked in the basket,
may the hand rub
the last soil from your skin
and
carry you -- singing and fresh --
straight
to the mouth of God.
© Barbara McAfee
Please contact Barbara for permission to use poem -
(612) 840-9255
