A Patch Of Grass

I feel big holding a mountain:
my arms melting snow,
making tea for skiers,
asking the goats to back off for a bit.
A reversing of roles
breathes life into bones
like a splash of vinegar on chips,
a ready salted crisp sitting on chocolate mousse.
I don’t always know where to put my hands
but they feel safe here,
learning a language
as a version of me
you grew from a patch of grass
near a city farm.