a self-planting furrow,
layers of deep earth
folding in over themselves:
in the warmth, i feel,
like your eyes,
rich as dirt.
one time i weeded on an aunt's farm:
the fineness of that soil
it got everywhere. and its moisture.
in the sun it looked deep and endless.
and when touched, it was warm
even in the dark places
warmed only by the sun.
how much warmer i
under your regard?