by Emma-Jane Peterson

Barefoot, Joe the Vet walks
these rows of rhubarb. Damp
toes feel the earth’s hum arcing
through his flesh, muffling echoes
of artillery fire. People dug here
for wartime victory; now we rake
the debris of our soiled minds.
Joe lifts crowded roots to feel the slice
of his jungle knife. He re-homes
a stranded worm, lays out grubs
for the birds, pockets a fallen
dollar for his nephew. We harmonize,
friends nourished by mutual toil, away
from searchlights. For once, Joe has
found goodness in a hole as he beds
the rhubarb tenderly beneath soil.
Water, now pooling from the hose, cools
his grateful feet. Moments to be still,
as elemental dirt grounds him, steadies
thoughts, electrons discharging peace
into his body. A spirit finding solace.

Photo by kaori nohara on Unsplash