First Harvest
Joseph Harvey
Squirrels and boys alike gather nutsfallen from wizened trees until evening,
when grandchildren enter the hazy parlor
and the random flicker of a matchhead
reveals cracked hands and frown lines,
like the stiff leather chair
or the tarnished books in the knotted wood case.
Thirsting boys squat on the unswept floor,
books circling their small forms.
Carefully picking,
he lifts one to his lap.
The sputter of a coarse match,
smoke curling in the ceiling fan,
the crack of pretzels from his hand.
With a ragged exhalation,
he breathes poetry through the room,
as children gather fallen grains of salt.
Volume CXIX, No.2