Sanctification Sestina

Looking out across the tainted ground,

I see the widespread masses of blushing blood

colored leaves, now mottled with the resting

of various autumn hues. Riding on gusts of wind,

once again they call me out as if on a dare.

I sourly answer back with the rake in my hand.

Passed through generations, from hand to hand,

once a plantation, but now this parceled ground

is only a remnant of that regal home where I dare

to recall how my ancestors of noble blood

came sailing the Chesapeake's salty waves on wind

to settle this feral land that would be their resting.

Ten piles and I look bleakly at where my rake is resting,

with it's smooth wood against my blistered hand.

And a thought drifts to mind as if brought by wind

of a part played by slaves upon this same ground,

not for their kin but for those of my blood.

And to balk or brood was a thing much to dare.

With shame I made a sacred pledge to dare

aspire patience great as those enslaved yet resting

on promises made by God who, through the blood

of one man, made us all out of His holy hand.

The dark, beautiful hands that worked this ground

never raised their blistered fists in anger to the wind.

Instead, songs rose up with the sweltering river wind.

With a prayerful moan they would patiently dare

to dream blessed dreams of walking upon ground

where they could do both planting and resting.

And the land named, worked and reaped by their hand

would rightly yield its blessings upon their offspring's blood.

Under the trees, where the leaves drop like blood,

where Honesty sings her proverb through the wind

and sovereign Wisdom burns ironic with a tap of her hand,

I can no longer take offense at this trivial task but dare

replace pettiness with patience. Working and resting

both are the blessings to be gleaned from this ground.

Sixteen piles and I dare to listen to the wind

as the blood trickles from my blistered hand

and hits its resting place on the autumnal ground.