Potato-Eyed
©November 2nd, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
I was mundane today.
Elbow-deep in dirt,
Back aching from stooping,
Lifting, carrying, dumping
Rich, dark dirt onto beds,
I felt around the potato sacks
Scrabbling and unearthing
Small, stubborn, little potatoes,
Unwilling to leave their dark womb.
All that work in the late, late spring –
All that blending of soil and compost,
Manure and more, all that toil
In sun, sweating and singing –
And THIS is what I reaped:
A colander-full of small, yellow
Stubborn potatoes!
Where are the larger yellow tubers
Of yesteryear?!
Where, indeed?
(And last year wasn’t great, either,
But still …)
I tell myself:
I will never be a farmer, not a good one!
But then, there is a small thrill
Within, a voice full of pride:
Those are my potatoes, mine!
If harvesting these hurt my back,
It’s honest work.
Next year, I’ll do better.
I shall plan, plant, stay focused.
My potatoes will be jewels,
Full of rich earthiness,
Full of goodness.
My potatoes will join my beans,
In timeliness and intent,
All planted early, carefully,
Without dilly-dallying,
And I will not wander off into dreams.
The earth will have my attention
And I will do all my research
And not let other voices call to me.
I will plant myself firmly
And see everything, everywhere
At once, my eyes growing roots.
And my potatoes will form,
Bunching together, ready to die
For my pleasure.
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