Tiny woman born of dirt.
Where most bodies go to rest,
hers was startled to life.

Split leaves woven tightly.
A severed braid burned with sage
and prayer to begin again.

Dress yellow as the sun
that scorched the cursed harvest.
Head shrouded with a hood

making her not the playmate
of some small, ribboned-haired girl,
but a breed of witch who strolls barren fields.

I think that’s why I like her. Eyes wide
in black certainty. Glare stiff and long
as a roadside stalk. What do they see coming?

I never played with dolls. I saw their life
and feared acting their god. At night,
I stare back and render her song.

You belong to no one
but the earth. Wholly to the earth
you belong.