I walk in from the bushes, gooseberry sweetness
lightening my tongue, content with the life

I have here. Soon enough, I am back outside
watering beans I planted late (again) this year,

water’s spray—first cool thing today— wills
the seeds their magic. Then onto my son’s

newest block of corn, returning a favor
and thinking of his grandfather, born almost

a century ago. He, too, loved growing corn—
Brooklyn boy transplanted to Pennsylvania

Piedmont. We grow where we can, roots
and shoots always seeking something,

this soil, this air become my fortune.