for Tessa

Kiln-fired hopes still shatter
easily enough. She lives in the city,
cultivating orchards in her mind,
harrowing the rows, tending to her
once-dreamed apple farm.
Long homestead evenings,
emptying cider from the press,
melt of winters lavish
in the ground, restoring health,
mending what the cold had slowed.

Kintsukuroi, she says, golden repair.
Every fracture part of history, rich
composite of lacquer and gold
healing in the cracks.
Our dreams are open veins,
land ready for the seed,
emerging finally in
many-colored leaves,
in fruit as sweet as laughter, as
men’s songs who now live free.