Garden Produce
Clarence Wolfshohl

      Fairmont, WV,

The garden glowed all summer, green
flames jagging out in the leaves
of zucchini, the icon hearts
of Kentucky wonders, the lace
of tomatoes.  And a miscalculated spark
from a weeding hoe or a neighbor’s
cigarette butt set it afire.  Perhaps
it was a chunk of coal missed
when we picked them from Monongah topsoil
hauled in, ignited into a smolder
like the seam in the Dakota Badlands
or up the road in someone’s backyard
in Morgantown.  Perhaps our hillside
had finally eroded down to the Monongahela
enough to bare a vein where we had tilled
and plotted our garden, telling us
we should build a tipple rather than
cultivate okra and squash.  And perhaps
it was just the sun
urging all that ancient flora
into blazing blooms once again.

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