“My God, we leave things green.”
Some poetry for your week, from "Foreday in the Morning," by Jericho Brown, from his (excellent) collection The Tradition.
My mother grew morning glories that spilled onto the walkway
toward her porch
Because she was a woman with land who showed as much
by giving it color.
She told me I could have whatever I worked for. That
means she was an American.
But she’d say it was because she believed
In God. I am ashamed of America
And confounded by God. I thank God for my citizenship in spite
Of the timer set on my life to write
These words: I love my mother. I love black women
Who plant flowers as sheepish as their sons.