Wednesday, September 27, 2006


Thick irregular waxyskinned
Hubbard, acorn, buttercup
winter squash rank shelves
where slow cool air moves free;
pallets of dusty burlap sacks
filled with rinsed field carrots
and aromatic netted Gem potatoes
forked with care from clean loam;
wrinkling ears of ornamental maize
half-shucked and spread to dry
red, orange, and blue kernels
for distant spring's seedstock;
and above everything else here
whispering discreet and distinct
across cold-concentrated senses
a blurred bittergreen scent
of rough-leafed tomato vines
uprooted whole, carried in,
hung headdown from long spikes
nailed into amber spruce rafters
still filled with living fruit
to ripen red slow and sweet
long after first dusts of snow
stretching out the warm light
of a disappearing season
like separate small suns.


Anonymous said...

Again you remind me of my childhood...and our cellar. It was lined with row upon row of jars filled with dill pickles, stewed tomatoes, relish, pickled beets and crabapple jelly, all made by my mother from stuff grown by my father...

coyote said...

Something kind of primal about the look and smell of a root cellar in early fall, no?

fingers said...

Totally sumptous

Anonymous said...

I never had a cellar...grew up at sea level. Literally. I would love to go into this one and breathe in....