NIGHTPLANTER
By Al Baron
When the weakness returns
to my knees,
I grip the shovel, lean against a pine,
unfocus my eyes and dull the
flapping colors,
press my temple to the bark and
think of anything,
except these stalks I have to cut
so they can grow back into seeds.
I know that history requires
unrecorded work,
I think of my own children,
not these,
and try to make the dirt appear
less freshly turned.
Al Baron lives in Washington State, where he works as an immigration lawyer. He is a graduate of the Book Project at the Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver, and his poetry has previously appeared in Killer Nashville Magazine.
