1)
Beneath the browning
leaves the yield is still
unseen yet anticipated.
I work the spading fork
into the soil to ease
the harvest home, lifting
the earth’s hem for a taste
of what waits beneath.
2)
A robin supervises the spill
of a new row. Moons of Yukon
gold rise with the turn, fingerlings
grasping at their roots, russets
tumbling free.
3)
I lean into a crease of shade
and ponder the satellite high
above me twisting the tale
of current events. The bees
humming of toxic mutation
beyond my fence, of flowers
devoid of pollen. My heart
harrowed. I kneel
once again to the work,
to the humble grace
of unsullied soil.
—
Kaz Sussman is a carpenter, and lives in a home he has built in Oregon from abandoned poems. He got into poetry just like everyone else because that’s where the big bucks are. He has been published in a variety of journals including Nimrod, Kingpin Chess, Interdisciplinary Humanities, Prodigal, The Healing Muse and Gastronomica. www.kazsussman.com/
