Dividing a dying woman’s land

Her eyes blur the fields.
She shrinks to a seed, forgets to speak,
forgets to say how footprints till the layers of her brain,
how voices rain through the season.

The heirs do not know it is her soul
furrowed for rows of wheat,
her rich, brown blood firm against the roots.

They glean the land from her veins;
by harvest, they’ll wrap her in soil.