Black Pan

Let the evening spread over the garden

like the broad skirts of a mother

covering the windy potato plants

with their pale blossoms fluttering,

the spuds on their stems

having grown up from their parents’ eyes

clothed in a delicate skin,

then slow-cooked with oil in a black pan,

eaten with salt and white chicken meat

on the night of the equinox.

Will we have music? Will we have rain?

Listening to autumn coming down close

with its rake and scythe

stepping gently between the rows

over the mulch and fallen leaves

the celery, garlic, beets, and chives

unmindful of injury or pain.