Weight of Abundance

by Iris Jamahl Dunkle

On days when sun blazes hills awake,
when still damp earth aches dark possibilities,
when crooked teeth of dilapidated barns
and crumbling stucco of lost missions
hum with stories they cannot forget,
I look at my freckled hands and try to find
a cartography for this desire to know
that seems stitched into me, into any
who live where one wakes to a horizon
that is continually blurred by low fog.
Stories are as abundant as the trees
and vines that are repeatedly heavy
with fruit.  What to dig up? What is enough?
In a garden so thick with weeds, sustenance
bleeds with what is pressing upon it.  So
days slur past, fat and happy, until
the eye sights it driving past, or the hoe
upturns the hidden artifact, revealing
another history buried underneath.

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