The paper blossoms with their amber eyes
have withered; their bodies collapsed on their hills;
their earthen wombs swollen and expectant
planted by those with wisdom to sow.
We wait until the sun leans westward
then pull the brown vines from their hills
shaking the small tubers from the roots;
the larger ones cling to the breasts of earth.
Grandfather brings out the diesel
then hooks up the plow with its steel fingers.
The frightful engine grinds
as it settles into gear lurching forward.
The worn tractor lumbers, plunging into the earth
while the kids follow behind feet buried
to the ankles in the tilled ground,
lugging baskets to collect the harvest.
We await the birth from beneath the warm soil
lifting potatoes like babes swaddled in earthen blankets
laying them in woven baskets.
This toil of sustenance lasts until dusk.
We survey the yield in the falling shade.
a century of generations among us.
Bushels brimming with the harvest of life,
our legacy we believe will never die.