HOLY GROUND

We struck a bargain this past spring, or rather,
I struck a bargain with you, when you left the
newly-planted mountain laurel gnarly and leafless

and stripped small oaks of their budding futures. 

You will eat the dirty, orange persimmons
that fell from the lichen-covered tree on the hill. 

Though we gathered only four all season to
taste of their pungent flesh, we did not mind.

You will eat the bruised and misshapen apples from

further up the hill, too full of  blackberry canes to

make the climb worth it. If you can glean them from
the abundant thicket, we are happy to share.

You will walk the mowed paths through the prairie,

and bed down at the edge under the spreading pines.

You will drink undisturbed from the pond, lick the salt

and lay hidden in the big bluestem under the evening sun.

Then, after the fall equinox and first full moon, the terms.

We will stand over your strong body and graceful eyes,

give thanks to you and the Sustainer, knowing the ground

we stand on, blood-soaked and bargained for, is holy.

Cindy Steffen
November 2011