Bone Dust

My grandfather cleared
the brush off a square of
prairie, woke in the black of
winter to build barns, plow
long fields of canola, wheat.

My father grew with those
fields, learned the curve
of the machinery with eager
calloused hands, gave
his strongest years to
the soil, straw, animals
of that place.

I sleep late, carry my
coffee and poetry to a
a grove of banana trees,
stain my bare feet with the
soil of a place my grandfather
never knew, a land that
holds someone else’s
bones, the blood of their striving.

What pearl of great price
have I traded for these
lazy days under the equator,
which square of land will
welcome the dust of my bones,
knowing I withheld from it
my strongest years?

2 thoughts on “Bone Dust

  1. robynth says:

    Oh Kirsten, this poem connects with something in me (I guess that’s what poets hope for, right?) as I know you can imagine it would. Land and place. Belonging and interconnectedness. Where our choices in life lead us.Who has gone before us. It’s a beautiful poem.

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