My EarthMom used to stand easy
at our kitchen sink,
looking out across our fertile backyard
vegetable garden,

Rising from humbly short
but brilliantly red/green
bodhisattva radishes
inside white but spicy,
not the least bit sweet privileged
and vanilla nonperformance,

To the back soldier rows
of sweet yellow corn,
husky green
and stalky tall
militaristic Northern erections
toward seductive southern sunlight,

While my WaterBearer
SeedPushing
WeedPulling Mom
leisurely savors cold well water
drinking away thirst
from her misty blue metal cup.

One summer hot afternoon event,
yet this time industriously revisited
until deeply worn into sacred meaning,
without turning toward me
or any other optional consumer audience,

She reconsiders the Messiah’s most mysterious miracle,
to her open,
but first and last questing, mind
was turning well water
into wine.

“I’ve tasted patriarchal wine.
I don’t believe it’s an improvement.”

While I didn’t say it,
but I admit thinking it hungrily unfit,
I’m not so sure about those capitalist wafers either.