It can become putrid if left too long
in the heat of summer, even nestled
softly between rows of sweet corn
or tobacco, or among blackberries

or briars. It may rot in the humidity
of a late Kentucky June, but handled
correctly, with respect, with love –
how we learned from ancestors, how

they taught us patience. Love shared
with weathered hands, spotted dark
with wisdom earned through troubles,
through toils in sandy, stripped soil,

that love can heal. If we listen intently,
heed wisdom passed down, follow ancient
songs, bend ourselves to rhythm, & nurture
every voice, we shall be properly prepared.