The Old Man Wakes up Early

Coming suddenly awake before dawn,

he gets up, mouth dry as ashes.

He eases to the kitchen,

dippers water down his throat and splashes his face

before he feels the coolness blowing in.

From the porch he watches the stars–

like his mother’s colander turned upside-down–

but in his bones he feels the front stirring.

By nightfall it’ll be here

and maybe his corn will make.

Two years out of five you lose it all,

his father had said, and break even the others.

He steps off into wet grass and through trees

with antique names–Smokehouse, Albemarle Pippin,

Sops of Wine–his grandfather’s favorites:

remembering his mother’s caution

about dew sores on bare feet;

how he learned to break in new shoes

by walking in dew till they were soaked,

then drying them on his feet,

and the baseball glove he’d wet with dew

and tie up with a ball in it to shape the pocket;

a hayfield glittering in morning light–

silver beads sliding down a rusty wire.

He looks down at his skinny feet

and long, bony toes splayed on the damp earth

in the moonlight, pale as clover roots.

Slowly digs them in till they disappear.

Feels himself start to grow again.

© David Black, 2011

"Barefoot"
Photo by Lorenz Kerscher
from Wikimedia Commons