They’re burning fields on the delta –
violent end of harvest.
Smoke billows above charred stubble,
chokes and blinds me as I drive.
Mom turns ninety on Sunday.
The whole town’s invited
at two for cake and to say
how good she looks.
In truth, she’s not good.
Fragile with diabetes, eyes failing,
fingers gnarled to claws;
no quilts for new babies.
Hard-willed as the life she’s led,
she stays alone with a cat and a walker.
Folks look in on her from time to time, say
they’ll let me know if something happens.
I’ve burned the fields too.
College-trained for work not at the whim
of subsidies and drought, I expect
no feast for this prodigal.
– Sarah Russell
First published in The Houseboat
Photo source
For Poets United
Sarah Russell Poetry 
This is a strong poem Sarah, the burnt fields.. the burnt bridges .. the emotions are palpable!
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Rajani.
LikeLiked by 1 person
The feast for the prodigal is, I think, simply the act of returning home as often as s/he can…until, of course, home is no more.
LikeLike
Your observation is interesting because in this case, a farmhouse nearby burned, and now gardens, sheds, the burned home, everything is like it never was. It’s just more milo or corn or cotton or whatever crop brings the best price. There’s an eeriness that abides in its absence.
LikeLiked by 2 people
The eeriness definitely comes across. Fire is an apt metaphor. (K)
LikeLiked by 1 person
The way you have moved the burning of fields from real to personal in the last stanza is really perfect…. to have parents aging and feeling that growing distance is so much like that.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much, Bjorn. Working on another poem of that ilk now. Yes, the distancing we do may be necessary to help prepare us for the death of our elders.
LikeLike
I love the circular quality of this, Sarah. And it’s very moving, of course.
LikeLike
Thanks a lot, Robert.
LikeLike
Powerful sentiments… well expressed.
LikeLike
Thank you, ZQ.
LikeLike
everything is burnt and will never be the same, but new things will arise –
LikeLike
Yes, Beth, but my mother-in-law’s way of life will be gone. Hers is the last generation that will keep the farm. She knows that and is hanging on for dear life.
LikeLike
I identified with much in this incredibly touching poem. The “no quilts for new babies” moved me to tears. In our family, it was “no more cookies in the cookie jar”. When my daughter moved to Oregon, it was my first knowledge of burning the fields. You’ve introduced that beautifully into your poem as well. Bravo, my friend, well written!
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Beverly. Yes, most young people from this tiny delta town have left. No jobs or opportunity.
LikeLike
I can see her with her cat and walker, indomitable. I like the way you move from actual burned fields to metaphorical ones. I hope she has a happy 90th birthday! Sounds like tea and cake with the town will make for a happy day.
LikeLike
Such a small town, and most of them were there, Sherry. A good day, thanks!
LikeLiked by 1 person
This burning of our lives as if it all goes up in smoke so quickly brings a hard reality to me….I love how you moved into the last stanza and the personal burning….
LikeLike
Thanks very much, Donna.
LikeLike
Nice Sarah. I tried to “like” it but it bounced. Who knows why.
Steve
Sent from my iPad
>
LikeLike
Weird. But this way I got a comment. Thanks!
LikeLike
The tone reminded me of your other poem – Requital – the clear-eyed unsentimental (and unforgiving/unforgiven) view of death and its prelude – that powerful – line ‘I expect no feast for this prodigal’ and the ashes in the fields. Marvellous stuff.
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Peter. A friend told me that he thought old age was becoming my muse. I think it must be true. Working on one in that ilk this week too. Hopefully, not maudlin or grotesque.
LikeLike
Bringing me back to Oregon again. The stark reality in loss. Sometimes those fields ‘get away’ and then the houses and good wheat are taken. The coming back again doesn’t always work, does it…
Thank you for writing this.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Kris. Always nostalgic to go back, even poignant, but it doesn’t always work, like you said.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sigh… everything is burnt and will never be the same, but new things will arise…
LikeLiked by 1 person
In the fields, yes, Sanaa. In life, it seems a slow decline for her.
LikeLike
Very much visual and touching. She seems to be the living soul of the farmland. Burning field works as a wonderful metaphor.
LikeLike
Thank you, Sumana. Yes, she is the living soul of the farmland. A beautiful way to interpret this poem. She has lived in that farmhouse for 74 years.
LikeLike
I love this one and how you brought it full circle. Excellent morning read. 🙂
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Al. Don’t know how you manage to read AND get your 1500 words in AND take care of a toddler. I’m in awe!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Haha well I’m not sure how I do it either. Luckily Bunny takes a nice nap every day. 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love how the poem is contained in the fire metaphor the same way, I imagine, the burning fields are contained. A pleasure to read.
LikeLike
Thanks, Ryan. Yes, it is usually a “controlled” burn, but very scary if, as Kris mentioned, the fire “gets away.” Then it’s a scramble to get it contained.
LikeLiked by 1 person
“I expect
no feast for this prodigal.”
The depth of this simple statement statement made me quite emotional.
How oft we leave what is, then mourn its passing.
A wise and wonderful read.
Anna :o]
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Anna. I think Thomas Wolfe summed it up in saying, “You can’t go home again.” Certainly those who “go away” from this small insular farming community are never seen in the same light by those who stay behind.
LikeLike
I love the deeply conversational style of your poem. It reminds me of the times I’ve sat a day on the front porch down South and listened to the stories — family histories to shaggy dogs. It has that easy cadence; as it should.
LikeLike
Thanks, Charley. High praise. I live with a farm boy from Arkansas. It rubs off, I think.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is brilliant writing. I find many of your poems have a story-telling aspect mingled with impactful images and insights of the here-and-now – creating wonderfully constructed, beautifully rendered pieces … such as this one. A pleasure to read!
LikeLike
What a lovely thing to say, Wendy! Thanks so much.
LikeLike
Sarah, this is one to read and reread. A layered story of disconnection. I especially like the last stanza.
LikeLike
Thanks very much, Ali.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Just lovely, Sarah. Reminds me a lot of Ted Kooser’s work. Thanks so much for the follow. I’ll be checking back!
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Cheryl. High praise!
LikeLike