To flower from seeds,
to make roots from water
means there’s a tending
or soft beginning like tenderness.
Delicate young germination
from soil. My baby. My soil as a noun.
A piece of ground from the Old French for sol.
A native lightness. The sol rises in Texas too.
Rising like a verb, there’s no stillness
to the threshold—another word for the bottom of a door,
meaning there’s a sill soiled. A sill or cut timber. Laid
& crossed over. To soil a verb meaning
there is original sin, meaning before dirt
there was cleanliness. No entry, no violation
of God. A mess of seeds that needs
water. Give us a mess of thick mud.
Que chiquero. Standing still like a cleansing
after a gentle roll-around. Wallowing in a field
como un puerco. Madrugando con hambre—
I am your shepherd. I am ready for battle
with the pastured sky
you fought so hard against
their beanstalks growing upside down, reaching for hell.
Copyright © 2022 by Sebastián H. Páramo. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 23, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.