Where are your roots
When you’re too tired to till the earth that sustained your family for five generations.
When your back is too bent to drop the seeds of hope
Into the fecund, black soil
And pat them down.
When you’re too arthritic to push a wheelbarrow of manure
Across the long, low fields.
When hauling a sack of fresh potatoes or squashes
Puts the strain of age on your lost muscles.
When your mind is too befuddled to appreciate the joy
Of anticipation in the labor.
When venturing outside is wrought with the risks of broken bones and pneumonia
And is no longer a spring into life.
When your bite is too weak
To chomp into fresh cucumbers and ripe green beans
And you have to eat peaches in syrup from a tin can.
When the annual nostalgia to know the colors of the zinnias and marigolds
Is overcome by fear of fractured hips.
And you no longer reminisce about the year of the thousand tomatoes
Or the prize winning pumpkin because
Nostalgia will stab your soul
Before your garden breaks a bone.
earthslang 