Native Land

 

I say there is a meadow, then, in trickery, I place it under my ribs;

Then in trickery, place it under my left rib, third from the bottom;

A rib like any, a field like a farm 

Early in June 

And I wish you well, 

You have traveled a long road.

 

Inside a clamor of birds, stir of my blood

Tells me Lord, you are walking in tall grass.