Openings

I once opened the earth with an antique plow,
three tines that were meant to be horse drawn
but I was using a gasoline powered tractor
manufactured by Massey in 1954.
It had two close spaced tires at the front
to stay out of the furrows while
you broke up the earth.

And I worshiped the dirt in those days,
with it's rich dark smells and I disc'd and I
harrowed until the mud became a soft bed
and I mulched in manure and compost,
planted geraniums, tomatoes, onions, carrots,
peppers and sunflowers with tall heads, like
watchers and keepers and at the far end
we put in the herbs, basil and parsley.

We made our own sauce, and India relish,
working late in the night when the crops
were ready, with children running around, until
they were sleeping on couches and beds,
mattresses laid down. They were not mine.
We did not have children, we never opened
a womb. But all those kids made me think
of the magic, of how things are brought into being.

That was long ago. Now I open beer cans
and sit with my friends. The other day
old Gordie said, "One thing I regret of
all of my years is not having kids."
"Aye Gordie," I answered. "Aye."