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Cowden's Farm
BETH BENTLEY
COWDEN'S FARM
In memory of Roy Cowden
1893-1961
Do you recall the Giotto sky
that autumn day when hand in hand
we found the old man's garden? Rich
with ourselves, we wondered at his fortune-
those ornate trees, byzantine globes,
the ground sodden with color. Fruit
heavy as coin and moist as mouths
warmed and stained our hands and lips.
Crushed by our feet, such fleshly beauty,
bounty, made all human giving
paltry. Then, nimbused as a Coptic priest,
our friend walked across the fields, unself-
contained, face ruddy as his crop, exultant,
as if the earth were his to lavish.
He unrolled his oriental acres
freely, as he had his summer of life,
an offering in bronze; grape,
pear, apple, pumpkin, zinnia-
medallions for the young, whose own love waited,
tasted, tested, scented from his
dominion the scope and color of harvest.