Over-Ripe-Apples-n-Old-Potatoes
A childhood star flickers low at dusk,
feet pressing soft on moist black soil.
A walk through fields past wild rose bends,
Childhood is stitched in learning to toil.
My father dug old potatoes in a rush,
His hands knew earth, the harrow’s weight,
No praise for the man gleaning after furrowed land,
he knows hunger is more than an empty plate.
My mother’s voice, a mournful demand,
roared through the crisp, cold, county air.
Having to live where hunger lingers,
memory clings like an unsaid prayer.
On the rag town road, the mockers laugh,
innocence folds where the poor must go.
But love still burns, an apple-over-ripe ember,
soft in the dusk’s descending glow.
WoPoLi 
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