Oaxaca

Beneath the carving drag of wood
the land moves slowly.
But lightning comes.

Growing their secret in brown earth
spread like a woman
daring
is weary work for still-eyed men
who break the earth
nursing their seed
and a hard watch through the dry season.
Yet at the edge of bright thin day
past the split plow—they look
to the hills—to the brewing thunder
for the storm is known.

The land moves slowly.
Though the thunder’s eve
can crack with a flash
the glass-brittle crust of a mountains face
the land moves slowly.
All a man’s strength in his son’s arms
to carve one sleeve
into rock defiant earth
and the spread land waits.

Slow long the plowing
through dry-season brown
and the land moves slowly.

But lightning comes.