The slate sky lies flat across the field,
plowed, planted and now parched
so dry the dust crunches under our feet.
We are two straw hats bobbing south to
north, down the 40-foot rows—she, quick;
me, field-blind. Then I see them: sturdy,
slender spring green sentinels among
the stubble weeds, standing guard over
the last remaining crowns in this old field.
We bend and snap, bend and snap.
In the kitchen we glide in graceful pas-de-deux.
Percussive slicing gives way to the pungent sizzle
of onions and garlic, the burble of simmering broth.
Then the whisper of wooden spoon against soup pot
stirring…stirring…and the mesmerizing alchemy
as the asparagus softens, releases. The whole house
grows redolent with that singular earthy scent of spring.
We ladle the steaming elixir, cradle warm bowls
in our hands as if for dear life. It is all we eat. It is
everything and enough.
—
Joyce Ritchie grew up in Midwest farmland and now lives in the coastal Mid-Atlantic; place infuses her poems. A lifelong reader, classical musician and career fundraiser, words and music are a through-line of her life. These days, she’s happiest wandering outdoors, a plein air poet, rediscovering her love of words and music—wordmusic. Publications include Blue Heron Review, Canary, Passager, Persimmon Tree, Sunlight Press (Pushcart nomination), and three chapbooks in collaboration with plein air painters.
