NaPoWriMo 4

The Wilting

Sometimes at night
I rise from bed
to look at my dark skin.
I make sure I can still see
my mother’s red clay
and my father’s kudzu
growing around
these roadside eyes,
a vista that fades
with each passing season.
The two noses I carry
come together as a hill
on a ruddy landscape.
In the soil of my flesh
once grew dogwood
and crepe myrtle—
the harvest of where I came.
How lucky I am
to witness this wilting,
night after night,
as field returns to field.