The potato eater

I know. There comes a time that I will be

called away from this meadow. Like geese

hearing  the whisperings of the Autumn.

fishermen listening to the screaming sea.

But for now I sleep under a blanket of dew,

I walk across the fiber-rich grass, I discuss

the weather with the deaf cows, I wave at

the farmer's wife, eat potatoes fried in lard.

Oh, I realize perfectly well. Near upon I

will be dressed in woollen suits, I will live

in limestone houses, speak the language of

bankers and office workers. I'll watch TV.

But as long as I hear no call, I will shuffle

along the willows, I will make from daisies

necklaces, I will believe that lame can walk,

think that death is another word for future.