Virginia has taught me

there is something

older than your mother, something

that knows more.

The mountains feel the weight

of the ocean, the waves of the tide

tugging on their legs, like toddlers

climbing a human mother in the kitchen.

The Virginian trees are hundreds

of years old and still newborn

compared to their ancient fathers

who were all cut down by colonists in need

of a roof,

one father protecting another

father’s children. Together.

Grasses here grow thick, shallow,

and mean, and the blackberries

with more thorns than any

English rose. I’ve watched the cardinals

build a home in them.

The dirt here is a god, a creator aching

for the chance.

I don’t believe the moon shines

brighter here than anywhere else,

but the snow globe nights are deep

and every inch of this place is haunted.

The sands are my daughter’s hair, caught between my fingers,

catching shells and birds and

pine sap, wet knuckles, rolling,

yellow leaves, and a

deep damp breath.

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Kemry Farthing is a poet and maker. She lives in Virginia with her husband, children, and ducks. Her work has been published with Psaltery & Lyre, Recenter Press, FLARE, and more.