It's Hailing

The Harvest Is Subject to the Weather
by Cheryl Arends
from Leaning into the Wind, a compilation of women writing from the west

I scratch the back of the earth
through thick inches of dust,
nesting each plant upon its bosom
as you once did me, hoping to somehow
make it all right, to pacify you,
Mother, for my not being perfect,
for me not turning out all right.

Year after year my hoe ruffles through
the loose garden dirt, against each weed
that tugs to live despite my onslaught for order.
I leave its roots to wither in sunlight
the way I fear you will leave me.

I mound the earth around tender stems
of cabbage, heap the mulch,
cover every inchof the corn patch
with hoe, fertilizer, water from my brow
to guarentee growth, failure only in hailstones
always a hailstone failure possible,
the sudden fierce uncontrollable storm
of revelations rolling in on green clouds
of guilt and fear, truth spilling in the downpour.

Even though I know not to disturb the plants,
that maybe some will recover,
will come back if I
resist trying to heal them, resist saying
too much, the results out of my hands
at last.

I sift through the soil for myself,
look beneath the fragil crust
to darker damp soil, let in air, drought,
look for growth, acceptance of myself
by me, by your, Mother,
each row straight, weed free, clean
as I'd like my conscience to be.