She scattered the seeds wide, far from her, to the edge of the furrowed land,
beyond garden, beyond home and the human notion of property,
Into the land of other and the stories she did not shape
Yet had a hand in the telling because
We all have a hand in the telling
Of our lives,
The lie to pass on,
The box locked,
Key hidden,
The double security
Of the safe
Where the seeds will never germinate in time to be
Touched by light, nurtured into growth, changed forever by the security
Of what is in the open, that place of edge, of boundary beyond the human notion
Of poetry, beyond these words, the thoughts you now think as you read them, the lie
That we make up when we say we are sure, forever sure, forever safe. We are never safe.
–Shaun Perkins
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 