October 6

Vegetables at the farmers’ market
have grown small and apologetic.
The last of the Oriental eggplant
would barely look me the eyes.
Curled upon themselves,
they protested,
“Look away,
Look away,
Time grows long.”

Time grows long,
and we are weary.
Give grace,
give grace.

On the highway
a troupe of lesser leaves
danced a pillared frenzy,
tossing their pretty naked faces
like nine hundred muses
all of one mind,
hearts set upon one song,
spirits free from care.

They were desecrated by a Nissan
and that girl with the red face,
red thighs pumping mammoth
and determined.

I bought a quart of sorghum molasses
from an old man with an interesting nose.
He boils the cane down once every three years,
because work is hot and terrible.

We lifted the glass against a sky pregnant with rain.
We remarked how sorghum is sweet like old earth.
We watched it roll, thick, black amber,
and spoke of biscuits
and women who stir together cookies.
We remembered beautiful things
we had never shared.

Time grows long, and many jars are filled
with all that was heaped in hope upon tables
two weeks ago. There were red peppers,
tight-skinned and full in the breasts.
Today, relish.

Relish, today,
while the weight of the wild bloom falls.
For October is a humble month
of penitence and recollection.