Alela Davis, Take Us Back
The tops of crags and cliffs, the air is thin
So we’ll find a mountain path on down the hill
Meet me where the snow mount flows
It is there, my dear, where we will begin again
Skipping stones, braiding hair
Last year’s antlers mark the trail

Take us back, oh, take us back
Oh, take us, take us back

I’ve a friend who lives out by the rivers mouth
He knows the fiddles cry is an old sound
A lonesome creeks and moans of empty houses
Are songs of like fallen rain
Windblown buildings, muddy ground
The strength of water can sink a man

Take us back, oh, take us back
Oh, take us, take us back

When the higher hills have turned blue
And the waves are lapping where the children grew
All that we have know will be an echo
Of days when love was true
Muted voices just beyond
The silent surface of what has gone

Pablo Neruda, Ode to the Tomato
The street drowns in tomatoes:
noon, summer,
light breaks in two tomato halves,
and the streets run with juice.
In December the tomato cuts loose,
invades kitchens,
takes over lunches,
settles at rest on sideboards,
with the glasses, butter dishes, blue salt-cellars.
It has its own radiance, a goodly majesty.
Too bad we must assassinate:
a knife plunges into its living pulp, red viscera,
a fresh, deep, inexhaustible sun floods the salads of Chile,
beds cheerfully with the blonde onion,
and the celebrate oil
the filial essence of the olive tree
lets itself fall over its gaping hemispheres,
the pimento adds its fragrance,
salt its magnetism –
we have the day’s wedding:
parsley flaunts its little flags,
potatoes thump to a boil, the roasts beat down the door with their aromas:
it’s time!
let’s go!
and upon the table, belted by summer,
tomatoes, stars of the earth,
stars multiplied and fertile show off their convolutions,
canals and plenitudes and the abundance boneless,
without husk,
or scale or thorn,
grant us the festival of ardent colour
and all-embracing freshness.