New Potatoes
With a weary, routine five o'clock swing
of the hoe, Uncle unearths the Idahos.
They roll brown down broke-open red clay hills.
It is like Easter
to me, five years old.
Just like empty graves
with Life breaking free from the ground.
"Dig some more, Uncle," I plead.
"That's enough for today," he says.
But it isn't enough for me.
"More miracles, please,"
my voice trails his hunching
shoulders covered with red dust.
With a weary, routine five o'clock swing
of the hoe, Uncle unearths the Idahos.
They roll brown down broke-open red clay hills.
It is like Easter
to me, five years old.
Just like empty graves
with Life breaking free from the ground.
"Dig some more, Uncle," I plead.
"That's enough for today," he says.
But it isn't enough for me.
"More miracles, please,"
my voice trails his hunching
shoulders covered with red dust.