Sure-
I remember,
the onions were still hot that year

in September.
I never learned to peel a potato.

The green beans
mother canned sat on the counter

waiting for me
to release the pressure with my knife.

Mom can still capture
some of summer in a small Mason jar.

She found rapture
in a bite of fried-green tomato.

Really-
it's been hard so far.
Father's farm looked dead this March.

In the yard his barn
crumbles- yet he stands like a statue

with a cold, callused hand wrapped
'round a beer can-the other in the dirt.

Grimy baseball cap
absent from his head-still covered

with sun-dried hair.
He's holdin' a post-hole-digger pullin' up earth.

Father doesn't care
his cattle bawl for the evening grain.

Fall's comin' and it's bout to rain.

Bathtub Gin, Issue 11 (Fall/Winter 2002)