If this land is not my own

then show me where to go God of Hagar

Each morning

new melodies in my throat and

steadied hands, I

pour water on yesterday's seeds

sprinkle fertilizer

till the soil while my bones are weary

trepidation tingling in my chest.

Tomorrow something new comes

stomps the ground I toiled

with splintered palms

steals the ripening fruit

leaves the weeds behind

declares my harvest null.

When can I rest my knuckles?

Where shall I grow my tender dreams?