Maxine Kumin

Enter November, wearing his helmet.
He watches me put the potato bed
to sleep under a blanket of rotted manure.
When March, all braggadocio and sleet,

bursts in, I will fork the faded horse apples
into the icy turf. As they break into grainy fluffs
the tines will exhume a few leftover marbles
of Nordlands we seeded together last spring.

I will not put potatoes again in this bed.
When April comes, shy as a filly
I will set out slim tips of sweet onions
you used to braid once they fattened.

Today you are farther away than ever,
the distant taillight of a car rounding
the downhill curve. Late. Cold.
I go in and uncork the white wine.