Poem

 

Wild Pumpkin

There is a place I have never liked:
Jo Davis county, with its John Deere tractors
and three a.m. families, dirty for life,

and the Saguenay Valley, where French rings
from young mouths, and every family
has the history of trappers.

I come from a line of farmers
and musicians. They are all dead.
There is no going back to what they knew.

A Cucurbito pepo will come back
the next season, despite the killing efforts
of a hoe. The broad leaves and orange flowers

have given one fruit in the garden,
now food for rabbits and mice.
This ancient pulp is all seed and dying –

the harvest full of nothing I know.

 

Copyright © 2004 Linda Schaible

 

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