Soil turned up,
my father bends over the earth
to scatter seeds—corn
heads straight for the sun
in a dazzle,
and beans twist and reach
just to hold something

close. The stream at the edge
of the field
strikes a wound around rocks
and tree roots.
I climb these hillsides named
long before my birth,
and wind whispers until we turn

to better hear its secrets.
My father whistles at night, songs
that make trees quiver
and tall grasses jitter, the moon
straining to catch the notes.
No matter where I go, I step where
my father already blazed.

There’s nothing here he cannot call
his own—joe-pye weed
and ironweed, milkweed and mullein.
Just over this ground,
the air hangs, a forbidden fruit.
I take it in,
as though I mean to leave this place.

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David B. Prather is the author of three poetry collections: We Were Birds (Main Street Rag, 2019), Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023), and the forthcoming Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press, 2024). His work has appeared in New Ohio Review, Prairie Schooner, The Comstock Review, and many other publications. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.

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