Day 290

The fields are charred now where a year ago
you planted summer vegetables.  You think
of cucumbers, red and green peppers —
how you picked and ate, fresh from the earth.
The memory sustains you as you count your dead.
You tell your children stories about planting,
harvesting: you want them not to forget.
The friends, the family you lost
will not come again, but the earth will yield
vegetables.  It will fold the ashes
into itself, nourish itself on death and loss,
offer new green growth.  You tell this
to your children; you are telling it
to yourself.  You close your eyes,
imagine what may be hidden
under the soil.  Roots, probing
downward.  Fragrance
of healthy earth beneath the stench
of all that has been destroyed.