There is no way to know
what we’ll find beneath
the yellowing leaves.
And always I forget
which varieties I’ve planted
and where. And so, when
the Finnish fingerlings appear
just below the surface,
I thrill in their golden
skin and knobby shapes,
and when the dark purple
potatoes emerge from the depths
of the garden bed,
by then, I am already kneeling,
but something inside kneels, too—
oh the russet and red-skinned
and pink-fleshed miracle of it all,
the sheer delight
of running my fingers
through the dirt and
pulling out potatoes,
each one somehow
a surprise, a small reminder
of how beautifully
the world can work,
how the darkness
nourishes such incredible
gifts. Ten hours since
I left the garden, and
whatever inside me knew to kneel
is still enthralled in prayer.
Each pulled-up potato, a reverent surprise.
Exactly so! It is one of my favorite moments of the year, out in the garden with Finn.
From: “comment-reply@wordpress.com” Reply-To: Date: Sunday, August 30, 2015 at 9:27 AM To: Rosemerry Trommer Subject: [A Hundred Falling Veils] Comment: “Digging Up Potatoes”
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Such pungent accompaniment too, the dirt, the dark, and surprise for certain.
Good poem, and the kneeling is such a powerful image in the poem.