Dreams crossing a field of yellow flowers

Dreams crossing a field of yellow flowers
Names falling out of them as they pass…

Where the footprints of migrants…

Are etched in dried mud of human misery….

Between each word sung or spoken….
Screamed or begging….

A sacredness resounds
In the minuscule….

It’s rounded motion….

Speaking in its spirit voice….

Toward our inward yearning….

Lesina, Italy
Where the immigres toil in 100 degree temperatures
Picking tomatoes.