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.