Subsistence

Remember for good one little strange thing: last fall

that farm in the hills on Saturday afternoon

where the woman said they had nothing of worth at all;

said every person is a message, sent so true;

said, but don't let anyone know, and looked at you.

Something was hidden there. Her shabby parasol

poked at potato sacks and stirred the finest lines

of dust all over the barn: a secret excellence

throbbed in that spell of waiting. Then we knew

some kind of fortune buried made that orchard grow-

Oh rich! Rich potato skins, apples the bears ate,

casual windfalls from the best tree in the world.