Mortar

By Elisa Mejia

Though time has pestled you into acceptance 
and the cliffs are saying goodbye,
peppercorns grind fine
and sea salt smash-sprinkles,
a savory mixture nestled 
next to wild onions 
you’ve pulled from the field.
Pungent green bunches passed through 
by the legs of deer and black fox feet
and overhead by crows who long to kettle
but banter with a hawk.
Mortar makes haste into crumbling;
it muddles cracks of light into impermanence.
Must your life always be an argument?
Might you take this mix 	  even onion flowers
and swallow it whole?

Elisa Mejia, a retired nurse in Birmingham, Alabama, holds an MSN in nursing and a BA in English. She now divides her time across three counties, spanning the Appalachian Plateau, Jones Valley, and the Gulf Coast region.  She practices the art of poetry and gathering lines from wakeful dreams, her gardens of blueberries and muscadines, the local birds, and her rescue elder dogs.