The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Noel Smith

Spring Planting

He turns the earth early for seed

which will follow in furrows

each round of the wheel as I watch.

In the evening the whippoorwil

whistles. Clouds shroud a new moon.

Blackest night for the vegetables

of which we eat the earth bound root,

brightest moon with its silver eye for those

of which we eat the leaves.

This has all happened before and before

as each year he husbands the roan

colored earth.  Like spider's lace

his spirit spreads over this ground

as it coaxes twin spikes into corn,

bean sprouts to light,  round knobs

of cabbage, and dark orbs of berries

which ripen and drop to his palm.

Wine for a late autumn eve.