Blood Meal

Every year, in the middle of winter

when the roots and buds of the perennial shrubs and trees in my yard

are just beginning to swell with new life,

in preparation for the coming new season of leaf, blossom, fruit and wood

I kneel at the base of each individual trunk, an acolyte

with a three pronged metal fork in one hand,

cultivating the soil to aid their development. Then

with generous handfuls of dried blood meal bought

just for this purpose, I bless

the ground under their branches

on which I then hang my hopes,

invisible ornaments of unconscious aspirations

casually projected onto these representatives

of domesticated nature I willingly nourish myself.

Because I believe it is good for them all.

Because I want them to grow.

I think of this now, though it is only September.

There are still a few apples left yet to pick.

The leaves on the lilacs remain firmly attached.

And the rose hips are still plump and bright.

Autumn has barely begun.

The roots are ready to rest.

Yet a young man just died

while unsuccessfully trying to

stop another from falling a tree

which then unexpectedly fell onto him.

Not everything that grows, grows up toward the light.

The strongest roots stretch further out,

dive deeper down to reach what they need

out of everything the earth absorbs.

                                   - Vincent Peloso, published in The Temple, 1999