In the morning of fall when the blankets are cool on the bed
go out go out into the long and waiting fields.
Get down on your knees.
Dig around the green vines.
Yes with your hands say please.
Dig yourself up something to eat.
Cut it into bitable pieces.
Fry it with a half of an onion.
Cook it ’til it’s crispy brown
soft in the middle where vitamins hide.
This is glory.
Spring is all about fresh air; summer gets along nicely on fruit.
September comes and turns into vegetables and nuts.
We must gather them.
They are waiting for us
living out life as food
giving us their age-old good.
In the ground as lumpy and round
diadem of energy
sweet plain hand full
ball of potassium starch and free will
pride is inside.
Every day dig a row. Toss them into the cellar with beets
with yams, and with bottles of sweet and sour summer
with the dried and smoked
sides of bacon and beef
with all the wine and beer and cheese
ready to be winter’s glories.
I love spuds in chowders and curries
sliced into a nice quiche.
Bake one, spread on it
sour cream or butter or peppery gravy.
You won’t be sorry.
G7 /// G7 /// C ///
C /// E7 /// Am7 ///
Cm7 / Gm7 Am7
Dm6 AMa7 // [3/4] G#m7 // DMa9 //
[4/4] Am7 D9 G9 G7 C /// ////
F7#5 / C#9 /
DMa9 / E9 /
D69 / Em6 /
Am7 Bm7 Am7 B
A B Gm7 C6 //// ////