Rain Harvest

Yesterday I had a long list of tasks, most of which involved the computer, a tired body, and a tired mind. I had little motivation to do the things I needed to do.

So I did what I often do when I feel this way: I went outside to visit my small garden. I said hello to the two new morning glory blossoms on the fence. I saw the peach trees, leaves turning yellow and shedding their skins. I watched my dog sniff the compost pile and dig her nose into the wood pile, looking for mice. I checked on the zucchini plant that had suffered in last week's frost.

Then I saw the sweet potato plants that needed harvesting, and went to work. I began digging in the soft earth, earth softened by the days' rain, and crowed in delight as I pulled potato after potato out of the dark womby earth. I wasn't dressed for garden work, but that seemed to make it all the more enriching.

When I was done, I came inside, soaked, dirty, and overjoyed, bearing a bowl of sweet potatoes like a proud new mother. And that experience became the day's poem, which I now share with you.

Rain Harvest

This morning you feel lost, overwhelmed
by your long list. So you go to the earth.
You stand in misty rain in your good work
sweater and dig for sweet potatoes, orange
and purple flesh buried in silty soil. You don't
bother to put on proper shoes or find the spade.
Your body knows there's no firm line between
different kinds of work and your fingers long
to feel the tug as you pull the potatoes free.
So you dig. With each lumpy orb you say hello.
Your heart spreads wide as your hair is soaked
with rain and brown dirt coats your forearms. You
find nuts the squirrels have hidden and bones
your dead dog buried last year. You find two small
potatoes you missed in the spring. You dig until
your bowl overflows with vegetables, until
the goodness you hold in your hands becomes
the goodness that lives in your hands, until
you remember the earth body that feeds you,
until you remember your earth body, until
you remember the silt of your hair
and the tender flesh of your skin, until you
remember the dark womb that grows
a sweet potato also lives and grows in you.

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With a grateful heart, Karly