Planting the Sacred Turnip

                                                                                          by William Doreski


                                                                                  Planting the sacred turnip

                                                                  on a hillside above the sea,

                                                                  we construct a large rock crib

                                                                  to suggest an altar, and fill it

                                                                  with compost and coal-black loam.

 
                                                                  We center the turnip-seed

                                                                  aligned east and west to enjoy

                                                                  the full concentration of light.

                                                                  When this single turnip matures

                                                                  we’ll pluck it like a shrunken head

 
                                                                  and serve with a good Polish ham.

                                                                  Everyone who samples it will thrive

                                                                  in the coming year. Women will bear

                                                                  powerful infants, men will stride

                                                                  colossally through landscapes muted

 
                                                                  by late autumn’s earthy pastels.

                                                                 Meanwhile as we finish planting,

                                                                 a storm has brewed. The sea plaits

                                                                 rollers bigger than houses.

                                                                 The tall green scallops pour over

 
                                                                the line of cottages and strip

                                                                 their shingles. The highway cringes

                                                                 like pasta boiling. We kneel

                                                                 in fear behind the stone crib

                                                                 but the sea can’t reach this high

 
                                                                 up the hillside. We’ll have to wait

                                                                 for the storm to relax. The wind

                                                                 shucks up and over the hillcrest,

                                                                 shaking the earth. Afraid to watch

                                                                 the bluster of surf, we bury
 

                                                                 our faces in each other. Let’s hope

                                                                 the sacred turnip germinates

                                                                 quickly enough to absorb

                                                                 the energy the storm enforces

                                                                 as sea and sky threaten to mate.