there’s pleasure in kneeling,

but kneeling in labor beet babies
or gratefulness

kneeling this way 
I transplant beets

of and in earth like them,
endurance as tentative, 
roots delicate as capillaries, 
I gently pull
two of them
from their nest


—two sharing the same cell of a potting flat, 
overturning their bound brownness in my palm,
bouncing the tangled clump of soil and root
to separate what had been a brief bond
into what would stand alone in sun and rain

singing psalms of compost on my knees
in what my mother would call prayer
which comes in varying degrees
the sound of which is always
thanks and please