For hours my mother had been
digging the wrong furrow.
It had looked like the right furrow
when she started
it became a circular furrow. So
she started another furrow
inside the other
and soon the new furrow had turned
just smaller. She looked around,
then began another furrow
and that one became
just a circular blob
in the middle of the other two furrows.
and sat down
right in the middle
of her bull's-eye.
She produced a harmonica
and began to play the furrow blues.
I went up on the roof of the barn and sure enough
if any bomb was looking for a target
it would have no trouble finding
this furrow in which
to plant itself.
But, the way she blew that harp
made the furrows feel good
like they were rippling out from her,
rather than circling in. I could see
the whole land knew what she was playing,
the whole land had been planted all along
in the waves of this target blues.
I thought, how could this be
the wrong furrow?
I came from this furrow.
My mother is a grade school teacher and someone who
is rediscovering her painting talent after thirty years. She
gets more beautiful after every passing year. I get my
artistic side from her.
If you've any comments on this poem, Scott Poole would be
pleased to hear from you. Or you can visit http://www.spocom.com/users/spoole/.