This poem is taken from PN Review 122, Volume 24 Number 6, July - August 1998.
AsparagusIt was worth it just for the picking,
the clean sharp snap from the root.
No breeze, no sound, except the hum of cicadas
growing to a crescendo at the edge of the field.
By July I knew the first short stalks would soon appear;
it thrived in the August heat.
Someone before me had taken the trouble
to plant those neat rows. I hated to see it go to waste;
...
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