I remember lying between
rows of potatoes and tomatoes
listening to the sound
of my grandfather
dragging his hoe
with expertise
through the dark earth
a little way away
I knew the tomatoes
would be canned
placed on thin shelves
in a dark room
where the pump
pulled sulfur riddled
well water
into our home
the cold would come
hard earth, bare trees
I could go back
to those cans
taste the summer sun
grown up
from a giving earth
that I have, now
to some, forsaken
there’s nothing
that anyone can do
in a room with formulas
to replicate
that taste
Patrick Johnson, Morehead