We drove in dim
with twilight and
left in joy-filled
confusion, our
hair shorn, the
puddles of us
sheepish.

What began as a commune
for racial reconciliation
persists in permaculture
from which we learn
to love the soil’s
varied colors, the
hues from which
we are fashioned.

Learn to be silent
so wind can speak.
To savor the fruit
from hand-thread
vines and the stomach
croons sonatas.
To fathom the love
in a buckeye flotilla.

Clarence Jordan,
cotton’s minor prophet,
whispered verses
reconciling us to pecan
tree leaves. Saying
no heart bears beauty
without vice. We left
behind only our lice.