What They Know
These tough trees grow like weeds,
dotting the world in all directions
like gnarled, black claws.
When the dust blew like oxygen,
painting its sandy fingerprints
deep into the knuckles of the farmers
who worked the land here,
the mesquite’s pickled branches
set on shelves laid bare
of all else edible. Mesquite digs
itself into the dirt, holding on
like death. Those who call
these plains home know
the need to cling, to plow
even when your blood
mingles with the dirt. This town
sprang up among these trees,
its gnarly fingers gripping,
ever gripping, a world
that flies by them
like no trees are rooted here.
Ramona Levacy
April 25, 2015
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