Potato Harvest

In the field sacks
of exhumed potatoes
line the rows
like tombstones
marking graves
now evicted
of occupants;

A many-handed
sundial of shadows
long in morning stretch,
gone under noon spotlight,
long in afternoon repose,
gone in night’s descent.

Potatoes, cool and smelling
of dirt, awaiting trucks
to haul them away,
to leave the field
to rejuvenate under snow.

Diane Webster grew up in Eastern Oregon before she moved to Colorado. She enjoys drives in the mountains to view all the wildlife and scenery and takes amateur photographs. Her work has appeared in Better Than Starbucks, Eunoia Review, Philadelphia Poets, and other literary magazines.