Grandma's Grit

The dream of money blanked out the beach sound,

all the cardboard in the world went back to trees,

the competition said, “It’s not in the air,

it is the air.”

Paper, thinly disguised as value, printed

aversion as a tactile reaction to concern,

the hoarded wish of survival

erased the currency of care.

Letters, in revolt, held back the vowels,

speech patterns rejected bulletins,

to know what something meant

meant you knew someone inside.

The next edition suggested we strain the water

of drowned hostages. To salute the grand design

garden signs all pointed to cabbages

as the solve of scarcity.

Love has a camp outside the roads,

nasturtium roots hold the soil,

the invisible, in mirrors, march along

the fans of oxygen in the street.

The drop, in the ocean, the bucket,

the Tao, returns to tilling the hard row.

Never before, always, and again, line up

for their turn to testify.

A sudden music woke the burden of proof,

to harness the stars horses require a coat,

differently abled is the common line,

the buckle, down, gives; the apron, folded, believes.

Will SchmitComment