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January 30, 2023

Harvest Time

By Michael Lee Johnson

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
09/12/2010
09:43:37 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.
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