It was pure,

Alongside the tobacco field where a

Antique tractor worked the soil.

Through plowing, setting, spraying, and cutting

But the vibrate sides

Where the nitrogen runoff would make

The clover and weeds explode

Between the rare 4 leaf

And white blossoms

The red would bloom.

A communion with gods I didn’t know

My brothers and I would pull

These blooms and suckle

At the sweetness

That was not corporate America

That was not the erasure of families and communities

That was not the commodification

Of a traditional way of life.

But of an experince,

of a hundreds of years old memory made again,

one that where I hope the ghosts of my forefathers

Looked upon us with begrudging

But silent approval