turning earth
strip the still-green tomatoes,
the curse of a summer too short
and rains come too soon;
pull stakes and cages and lay plants
on their side, stretched out
on the earth. It's time to turn.
Pull up marigolds, weeds, the volunteers
from last year. Kneel, gloved hands
scrabbling, in that ancient rhythm;
the year-end harvest. Remind yourself
what grew: Black Prince tomatoes.
Celebrity. Roma. Cucumbers. Flowers.
Snap peas. Tell yourself what
will grow next year: Heirloom tomatoes.
More cucumbers. Butter lettuce. Thyme.
Then, the shovel slips into the cleared
innocent earth, and turns, and turns again.
The soil coming up, sweet with compost,
mingling with the scent of sweat as I turn
again what longs to be rucked up at the year's end.
--10/22/00