Only Borrowed

Only Borrowed

(“When you harvest your land’s produce, you must not harvest all the way to the edge of your field; and don’t gather every remaining bit of your harvest. Leave these items for the poor and the immigrant; I am the Lord your God.” Leviticus 23:22)

If you find your place on the planet, clear the land,
plant the seed, amplify the harvest, use what you need,
only what you need. Do not waste your time or edges,
do not consume the fringes, cut back the hedges you built to
protect your investment.

Less hinges on your insurance; more on the emptied closet,
the inches trimmed to feed the rest. More depends on your
radical placement,
responsible payment of debt

For the ground that warmed your seed,
for the seed that raised the value,
for the harvest that graced the avenue
with a golden invitation that nothing
is owned

But only borrowed. Plant your feet,
take a breath,
exhale slowly,
let the lowly come to mind with
the next mouthful of gifted air.

Let your hands be rough from volunteered labor,
your words soft like the evening star,
your face warm as sun-warmed loam,
your eyes jammed full like goose-down pillows;

A new delight, an expansive embrace, the response of
a grace learned from constantly tripping on the roots of trees

That hugged the spot, the suburban plot,
generations before you thought
it was your own.