Birch Saperstein

Dig a garden until
dirt soaks deep and seasons
from within.
You get better flavor
that way. Let soil
nourish soul, reach beyond
skin, spread supple branches blooming
in stomach. The flowers bloom twice.

In mourning, make a tincture of
bones and brass.
Let buzzards swarm, wait
six seconds before watering
the next tomato plant. Bless
the hum, preserve the skin
for dyes. Take a drop under
your tongue for loneliness.

In daylight, brew tea of mint
and borage. Rest in the sun,
wait until tomorrow to drink.

When fall comes, when
leaves descend and the world goes grey,
when geese fly overhead and
ice cracks, reach into
drawers of lint and
paperclips and rubber bands and
find dried leaves, long molded over.

Hold them close, and pray
for water.

Birch Saperstein (they/she) is a poet, knitter, and freshman at Kalamazoo College. They write about shiny things, cool rocks, bugs, and anything else that catches their fancy.