Poetry by Jennifer Lagier

Main Content


For a decade, dad planted Indian corn
between rows of almonds.
Some years, he included basil,
zucchini, tomatoes.
The orchard’s drip irrigation automatically
watered his hidden vegetable garden.
Organic fertilizer encouraged fat, juicy produce.

After a botched surgery
cost the use of his legs,
he would have us drive him to the ranch
where he could visit the flourishing plot,
monitor mounding squash, maturing stalks,
plump ears, darkening silk tassels.

In fall, he sent us to gather
multi-colored fresh bounty.
To this day, each Thanksgiving
I include a few rust, silver, and yellow ears
from his final harvest
within our family’s wicker horn of plenty.

September 2023