poem

ASPARAGUS

If melancholy had a home, it would be

A garden in October when frost has picked

The last tomatoes and pinched the peppers free.

I wandered such a place one day; I kicked

Through rotting tangled vines of cucumber

And broken pods of okra, broccoli plants

With stems like trees, and quiet as in slumber,

Two grapes winding up a fence. My glance,

However, fixed at lst on a bed filled

With tall asparagus wholly gone to seed:

Like Christmas trees they stood, their bulbs spilled

Beneath to settle in the earth, freed

For next year's growth. It was a fine bed

(I guessed it at five seasons) showing good care,

And more, restraint. Asparagus is better bred

With patience; the grower's cutting hand must spare

Emough green shoots to drive the crop to come.

He knows each year brings more if he holds

His urge to gather early, leaving some

To infuse the soil with life, for life folds

Into life. I have seen men swallow dreams

From tasting too much extravagance, consuming thus

Too much too soon, and failing, so it seems,

To savor the wisdom in asparagus.

- Bruce Jacobs