You can't hide from
that thing you're running toward —
you can't hide from it anymore than
you can hide from that thing
you keep running away from.
It sinks in and buries its roots.
I'm out in the garden
planting sweet potatoes
and morning glories,
and I'm thinking about
the sorghum my grandfather
once grew.
We're always trying to grow something
a little bit sweeter than ourselves.
Clumps of freshly-tilled soil
cling to my ankles.
Even the little things will leave their traces.
