Her bent knees and the mustard seed along with other time capsules.

help me bury my finger nails under 
the oak trees. I resolve to 
grow another time when the windows
are less foggy in the morning.
i will grow when the grass 
doesn't crunch like dipped glass--
bleed these feet like peanut shells--
no matter where i fall i could be spore-- scored
scorched scattered-- the mustard
seed choir who all fell on the rocks
and none in the garden where heaven
is supposed to grown before you 
get old enough to doubt God and doubt
gardens-- young enough to think about
all the time capsules your
grandfather might have left
you at the bottom of the sandbox
or under the Oak trees or inside
each peanut shell you peel off
like finger nails--
my hair still turns blue in October
and my feet still turn
blue and my nose still blushes blue
like the Sugar Maple trunks. These Maple-
ladies
in their
straining 
stretch-marked
thighs bent in their own
benediction to keep out the sun-- 
the legs say "she is worthy, she is ready"
and the sun is assumed each day 
into their pelvises-- reserve birth of
a rotted acorn-- mustard seed
sown into my forearm with ink--
did i tell you about the peanut shells
i buried like finger nails--?
the elbow bones of white bread sandwiches 
and squirrel tongues-- i've always been
afraid of how squirrels eat so 
fast and so worried-- eyes peeled open
to the sun like they're seeing death take
his measured steps-- death who scatters 
the mustard seeds under his rob
and tells us to grow ourselves as acorns
because mustard seeds are a myth used 
by man to sell hot dogs and 
heaven and white bread sandwiches--
what would you save for me in the time
capsule--? i can leave you something
blue-- like my hair or just a white
bread sandwich that could remind you
how we all have cracked peanuts 
like a squirrel-- eyes peeled back
under the nervous legs of our mothers--
did you go back with the sun or
wait for me here and how much did you
bury-- how deep did we go? 
leave something for me when the windows
stop fogging and the grass stops 
bleeding us like rotted acorns.
i'll be here digging with the squirrels,
eating peanuts with my grandfather 
and trying to plant mustard seeds
to grow whatever kind of heaven
can grow from our own thighs--
no we never need a garden-- we needed
our knees and our finger nails
and the mustard seed.