money tree

i try planting anything i can.
the rain is coming wild now. 
this is the time for uncovered bones
& the old spirits to come & make 
themselves lush. i start with money.
limp bills from the bottom of
a panic. shoved into earth. a tree
inside a tree. then i try coins. 
anything is better than nothing.
the state quarters & the toothed-edged dimes.
we could make enough to be real 
& to sleep on the moon, right? we can
keep eating apples & paper towels?
i move on to greater sacrifices. 
the tip of my tongue. a finger. a laugh.
you have not ever laughed into a hole
in the wet soil unless you're poor too.
a burn pile in my heart that won't light.
once there was a car without windows.
we empty the cabinets. there must be
something else we can sell. i plant an eye. 
i am hoping that is the key. here 
we go with the plum pit. nothing grows.
the pawpaw trees are not even fruiting
gods i want a little shrub even. a wine berry
vine to open briefly for sweet red.
when i finally accept that none of this
is going to grow, i get my shovel out.
i want it back. i find my finger but not
my eye. use a black walnut instead.
see the scent of their green scripture. 
try to have a yard sale without a yard. 
the spirits ask what i am looking for
& i explain, "a way to sleep." everyone
i know is staying up all night with
the lights on. we buy coffee because
there is a window. all the trees apologize.
i count the ones i have. wash the dirt from
the bills i could find in the sink &
hang them up to dry like dish towels.