Reclamation

Far, far to the south
south past south
a long expanse of ground grows slowly wild.
For twoscore and three years
the reaping blade pared it bare.
Public land, appointed to the enjoyment of passersby,
it knew the daily cutting of every blade and leaf,
knew the habitual cultivation of parkland
until its topsoil forgot how to send new shoots into the air,
forgot fecundity. But now, purchased
by a quiet agency, it lies fallow, allowed
to seed. Even in the cold of indifferent winter
the roots stir beneath the soil, remember
their purpose. Overexposed for so many years
it starts small, a patch of foliage, shy,
keeping close to the ground, and then
begins to spread, to flourish, to lengthen
like the daylight. It textures the ground,
casts shadows.
Some of its surfaces still lie smooth,
without memory, without awareness,
without forecast, sheer as rock.
Some of them have just begun to wake,
tiny spikes pushing through the soil
among the wild lengths of the already
vibrant growth. Running my fingers
up the softness of my shins, parting the
sparse beachgrass waves to see where the whorls
shade the newest shoots,
I see my body begin to remember itself,
to reforest. In the sunshine strength
of my skin, lush for its own sake,
the flush stirrings of life unfold
in what I have reappropriated.