She harvests rains I dream about,
I’m waiting for, and tend to strand.
Her weary face is up the spout
with marigolds and arid pouts.
Nevertheless, she’s Motherland.

Forget-me-not, forgive-me-all.
The heart is stout and far from home,
it bears the silence made of cold.
Oh marigolds, oh marigolds,
you sowed the seeds in distant loams.

Someday, I’ll grow to be the place
for dappled birds and echoed flicks,
and wear a mask – her weary face,
while marigolds shall blaze in Grace.
She harvests rains, she cares... while ricks.

9 June 2009