Because familiarity
they did;


a battle ground to fight
their wars over and upon:
when they became
contemptuously unfamilial.

They loved, perhaps;
desired, undoubtedly,
wanted always,
to possess
(by inches or entire)
the territory
I encapsulated.

Undermined by subtle digging
flooded by artful tears,
the ground was
captured and recaptured,
scarred by entrenched
positions, churned
and chopped

It was – I was –
passed over reluctantly
passive, unprotesting
hand to hand
a little more baggage
stacked in corners
at each turnaround.

The front, at last,
turned elsewhere;
disputed ground
losing its appeal
when the cracks
became too apparent
and negotiating
it meant miring
themselves in the rutted
mess they'd made.

They moved on.

I read once that in Flanders
it was in the ground
most scarred that
most poppies flowered,
their seeds finding
easy beds in the fractured earth
spreading stubborn roots to bind
fissures together.

I wait, here, fallow,
recovering, in the neglect
that passes for peace,
letting the weather
and silence begin to
smooth edges, wash
ridges into ruts,
restore a surface

I'm making myself open to the
possibility of seeds.

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