Henry arrives with his roto-tiller
eager to please. Come March
in the mountains we all want a garden.
We’d grow one in stone
if we had to. But of course
we don’t have to. The earth is obliging
and Henry digs rocks from the ground
like a prospector. All afternoon
he plows. Under that jungle
of weeds is good earth. We’re surprised.
“Oh ye farmers of little faith,” he laughs
and picks up a brown clod. “Potatoes,”
he says, “I can taste them already.
They’d grow here like grass.” The dirt clings
to his fingers. Above our heads
Rocky Face Ridge takes the sun like a lover
and beams. “Good thing
I got this job done today,” he says,
rubbing his big palms together
like flint. “Hard rain’s coming
tomorrow.” Today it is Friday.
Today, I keep saying. Today
and today. We live here
by this patch of plowed earth
and we’ll eat potatoes all winter.