Victory

The gravel-rote elm leaf

leaning out over Johnson grass

seeking a shade more sunlight

though brushed dusty by the gusts

of tractor tires, does not dismay

my feet. Though they lose

traction; stumbling daily over

a replacement of blue stone

they carry on. My body

is not a sail, not like the tractor

—not like yours. My body

is lead, a lodestone, sinking

ever-deeper in to clay, unfettered

by Ra’s endless victory dance

about the climes.