My shovel hits the dirt,
I turn the softened soil -
This is the place of birth
Of the potatoes I boil.

In neat, straight rows
Nestle the seeds -
As the potato grows,
The dark soil goodness yields.

The many souls that bless the land
Reach up through the potato
Distant echoes of a funeral band
Sore eyes turn back to Plato.

In search of you I comb the earth
In mud I sink my toe ...
And sense your spirit freed from dirt
Through golden folds of mashed potato.