The Root Cellar in March

Slowly the season passes.
The stores, so carefully put up at harvest,
deplete.

It is a race in reverse this time of year,
how much to eat, to consume
before gardens again produce

and starvation is again staved off
for another season.

Most years there is plenty.
But now and again, a thin harvest
or harsh winter leaves you with pickings,

the depletion, crippling.
Your stores with not even enough
for the mice,

much less for you
and the ones you love.

That is where the pain lies.
not in your own hunger.
You are accustomed to that,

well able to survive lean seasons
without breaking,
able to survive till spring,

but when those dear to you suffer,
part of you dies.

About this poem

Like most of my poems, there are layers to this. (The only exception are my love poems, which are about one thing and one person when I write them.) It’s not always about food, money or things. At times it is emotional reserves, a struggling faith. Anyone who has children or loved ones understands.

Tom