Victory
The gravel-rote elm leaf
leaning out over Johnson grass
seeking a shade more sunlight
though brushed dusty by the gusts
of tractor tires, does not dismay
my feet. Though they lose
traction; stumbling daily over
a replacement of blue stone
they carry on. My body
is not a sail, not like the tractor
—not like yours. My body
is lead, a lodestone, sinking
ever-deeper in to clay, unfettered
by Ra’s endless victory dance
about the climes.
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