Fireflies escape

Into the summer

air,

grass no longer mowed

to the root.

Find sanctuary

In my garden,

When blades

strip the ground

from underneath.

As the tides go up,

and water drained

from the mouths of ailing children

tears well up in the eyes of mothers:

drip into the digital vein.

My garden stands untouched.

The crops are enough here to feed a nation

and in a sense, they do just that

nourish the ones who fight and fall

until we abolish all notion of station.

For solid ground is where we stand.

The world cannot stay whole.

Though blood is blood and tears are tears

we remain divided by imagined lines

as if we don't share earth's one soul.