Potato-patch

Dug a potato-patch this blissful cherry-blossom morning

turning grassy ground for humble tubers

found a 20-cent coin deep in the soil

stamped in the year 1884

And paused and leaned into meadowlark song

and into the great breathing

merging into this mysterious “knowing-when-it-is-time”

while the bees in thick yellow socks

drank the sweet dandelion wine kissing

flower-mouth love-drunk rolling in pollen

one budding yearning sprouting mating hatching

I wanted the patch be shaped like a dew-drop

it became a tear

So when I sat down facing

this white sheet of innocent patience you imagine now

I craved and strived to fill it with words

that could embrace this endless flow and ebb

of feeling just as organic

just as vividly carnal

in this holy temple body

praying to this ceasing fire

of rhythm and syllable, red on green

sacred sound and wild scent

But as you see now

it did not happen

as the great Goddess of Poesy smiled and said:

“No flow in 'urging and striving' friend,

as

…if it is work

...it does not work

you better go dig more potatoes

as they did in 1884

when the cherries densely shone in white and blissful bloom!”