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.