The potatoes in the drawer,
Sit quietly waiting for an owner’s return,
Reflecting on an idle, but well-lived youth;
Spent deep in Iowa earth,
Nurtured by an automated, yet loving father.
Yearning now, for sunny, rain-filled days,
When it seemed all we did was eat, drink and grow,
Our only worry … for the farmer’s well-being,
As we relied on him. Completely.
We were strong potatoes,
With few scars from our upbringing,
Situated in the Iowa dirt,
(a word which always belied its beauty).
Not proud, but certainly not ashamed,
More grateful for a simple, plentiful life,
Devoid of disturbance, peace-filled,
Unknowing of the future.
Now it seems, the new owner has forgotten.
Not us, but just forgotten.
Purchased at market with good intention,
To become a meal which sustains all;
We were attractive only a few weeks ago,
Ready to be cooked to perfection,
And become the supper always intended.
Not a sacred Eucharist, but the stuff of the everyday,
Created by God to sustain his great love,
Mankind and all that surrounds us.
Its late in life now,
We had started to shrivel and as Hollywood looks fade,
A darkness and waiting prevailed,
In the mind which forgot us,
This last time.
Soon it will be too late,
Baking now impossible, but perhaps home fries,
With a little editing.
The fading of our usefulness,
Reflects our new owner,
Who is now in his own drawer,
Forgotten by a few,
And therefore, not used, or as useful,
As once was.
Except to his creator.