Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Small Potatoes \ Dusk, New Moon

Alan: Each year’s garden starts in hope, ends in melancholy.  There’s always something that flourishes, but it’s hard not to mourn the failures.

Small Potatoes

Some years there are only
small potatoes.
Something about the seed,
too much rain early
or too little late.
Each April's planting
goes underground
with a little more effort
and ache.  Still, we weed
our few rows: Carolas,
Onaways, maybe Red Norlands,
and, in October, dig.
Small potatoes again
this year.  I stare
at the little piles
of white and yellow,
no reds at all, sort
out those big enough
to get a peeler on,
gather the others up,
as if collecting tiny hopes,
carry them to the compost,
give them to the mice and worms.

Nancy: Gray dusk steals the color, stills the cove, gathers around me, waiting in silence.

Dusk, New Moon

A woman carries water.
On the far shore of the bay
a raven calls once,
breaking the silence left by the thrush.
The hill slope fades;
the flowers go out, one by one,
the roses, goldenrod.
Gray the doorstep,
the meadow, gray
the spruce,
the bay.

A woman waits.
Her doorstep is a gray stone
in a gray sea,
where nothing moves, there are no ripples.
Then into the cove of night
swim the stars.

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