Supper Time

Lost and Found Lost by the mire where swamp haw thrives and violet corts thumb up from marsh mulch, I scanned in vain for a sign of sun in the clouds to point west before dusk sentenced me to night in the bog, but light where cypress shadows merged was a blur, and no moss favored one side of an oak to say north. Insects chirred as I circled, thinking the hawk's way best, but I was still bewildered and beginning to sense thirst when I found a field of wild saxifrage which can break rock, dissolve gall stones or work as a starved man's salad. Then a stand of dwarf ginseng, fleshy and best raw, which my kin use to stimulate the heart. On the fringe grew hairy herbs I knew from Granddad's tales bow always north and serve as calming tea, the white flowers dropping pollen on bent leaves saying: this way, comfrey, comfort, come home. —R.T. Smith S/ C^, .*¦ A VJP ---—WC ¦ t 3 !' V; Supper Time "What's for supper, Momma?" "Cornbread and taters. Where do you think you are? Your Daddy's a miner, boy. We gotta eat them taters, 'Cause we ain't got that far Yet." I recall those days so clearly Now that the pain is gone. How sweet the smell of cornbread baking As Momma put them taters on. I dug 'em, I mean I really dug 'em— Hell, I dug 'em then put 'em back in the ground, In a pile of earth laced with coal dust, We stacked 'em back in the ground. "What's for supper, Momma?" "Cornbread and taters, same as always, Where do you think you are?" I think I'm a long way from home. —Gary Castle 7 ...