This Hope I Sing

This hope I sing, some mothered word, if ever it be sung,
must be formed and nourished in the womb
of your red mouth,
corralled by teeth and blessed by lips
to form the perfect sound,
expressed as blessed with your magic smile
as from your love it comes.

This love I shout, a fathered sound,
if ever it be spoke,
responds like earth to ache of spring,
not of the will alone,
but hands and legs and brains that steer
the blade in furrows long and straight
across the turned up sod.

Thus, does the plough recreate the plain
and mold creative mud,
lest hope for the future dry up like grass
because of lack of rain.
How otherwise to understand
the power of the blood?