CONNECTIONS by Frank McMahon
Did it start as we helped to build the stooks
of wheat, the terrier ratting in the furrows?
Or going with our uncle to the river’s tongues,
to stand astride the narrow channels
pail in hand as the tide flowed out,
invite the fish to enter? Or the journey
early morning on the horse-drawn cart
to take the churns of milk to the gathering place?
Hands rooted in loamy soil, routed from farm
to garden, connections to necessities,
taken in like morning air
or stroke of wind on cheek, neural,
microrizal symbiosis, budding now
in the beads of sweat and gathered fruit.
