Beneath the Morning Sun
.jpg)
Aunt Rose places a scuffed maple boxthe size of a matchbox in my hands.
She gives me its dull silver key and
whispers, Everything you need
is inside. Rose anoints my forehead
with herbs and asks me to sit. Then
she kneels to cover my feet with
rain-drenched earth. I feel roots
scroll down from the cracks
of my soles after she rests her hands
on the ground above my buried feet.
So I close my eyes and settle in
to dream beneath the morning sun.
