I am digging the wrong soil.
This is the red, serious clay of central Maryland,
of the piedmont parted by the Potomac’s path
to the blue-gray waters of the singing Chesapeake.
This soil has its own rituals
and rememberings.
Tall corn seed and ancestors were buried here;
offerings were made to them.
My ancestors lie in a stone-fenced grove,
in the black and battle-worn soil
that redeems generation after generation.
Once I raked it carefully into fine lines
around the headstones of grandparents,
longing for time to plant something and give it water,
watch the first leaves emerge,
see it flower and yield seed.
I wanted someplace to eat fruit of my own planting,
sustained by the same earth that fed
those that came before me.
But home is not there.
I struggle to learn the land I inhabit.
Caught in the great currents of air
that travel between indifferent coasts,
my spirit searches restlessly for a place to be planted,
to find that which all seeds and ancestors seek:
the place to sleep,
renew, and then sustain.
Dec. 6, 2005.
offeringstone 