heavy seeds

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. . . they buried the weapons of war, for peace.

Alma 24:19

bury seeds these
      with covenant grit
shrill songs on our lips
      as we circle the pit

clank seeds clanging
      as we cry-file by
beg, plant-praying: I will not—
      nor I—nor will I—

plead seeds these
      to finally sleep bright
crush-hushing their anger
      with lullaby rites

sprinkle loam with tears
      raise muddy berms
months molder into years
      as the new crop germs

until one day
      from black soil this
heavy seeds these
      become a sapling wish

an orchard, a forest
      ripe green-golden shade
to bud-blossom-bear       
      one fruit: these saved

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Conversation with James Dewey about his poem here.

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