June 24, 2019


Harvest Time


Harvest Time

A Métis Indian lady, drunk --
hands blanketed as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside -- approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There are only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.

Inside the basket, an infant,
restrained from life,
with a fruity winesap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.
A shallow pool of tears
mounts in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.

Article © Michael Lee Johnson. All rights reserved.
Published on 2010-09-06

1 Reader Comments

clearly r. voza
07:43:37 PM

i had a writing teacher in college who said, "you can't write a good poem about sadness. but you CAN write a great poem about a homeless man sleeping on a park bench as it begins to snow on christmas eve." this poem also fits that example.

Add your own comments!
The Piker Press moderates all comments. The commenting policy can be found