This good dirt belongs to the fruit,
to the forests, and to the corruption
done by man;
Those thinning as rivers,
must arrange their rent.
Must cling like the animals to their dying land.
This good dirt doesn’t know it’s forbidden to survive by the very bounty it produced because it was told it couldn’t.
This good dirt doesn’t know it’s being poisoned.
Doesn’t know its fruit has been over picked by settlers who turned a blind eye
A summer day when heat turned to
A Free Verse Poem by Olivia Delgado