The Potato Poem

The staff of life for my ancestors who had to escape the famine

imposed by their would-be masters who forced the choice

to stay home and die or go elsewhere,

potatoes are in a mesh bag in the lower cabinet

a cool dark dry place, protected.

I will too easily forget them if I don’t eat them soon.

I was handed down a hunger for the flavor and sustenance

the sense of a comfort and safety that warms the body

lifts and evens mood

nourishment with butter, salt

and the character of music and hearty laughter

I was handed down a hunger

for love and kindness that makes life fulfilling.

So here’s to the Irish

and a background to be thankful for

and here’s to the success of the migration

and wishes for good health and happiness 

to friends and loved ones now from every walk and way.

And if I do forget the potatoes in the cabinet

As it is with the deepening of love they will grow roots, not rot;

As it is with the watchful and wise they will grow eyes, not moldy spots.

Unless I leave them there just too darn long.