Secret Pleasures

The sourwood sprouts are long

as flyrods in the field we turned-out

years ago. Its soil had worn

so thin the weeds runted and rocks,

boiled up by frost, began to cobble-over

bare spots and gather in the washes.

Erosion left the ground in swells like graves

of the family's labor.

Our granary's now the weathered humps

of clay from which they took

the syrup and left

a fragrant dust. Let it

scab and fur over on its own

and offer no scrap of crop bigger than dew

and the beadwork of berrypicking.

My secret pleasure: to come and watch

the shoots work-up

their honey from bitter clay.

Lichen gardens improve the scars,

patching over history. I offer

the land my leisure.