Harvest TimebyMichael Lee Johnson A Metis Indian lady, drunk, hands blanketed over as in prayer, over a large brown fruit basket naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard inside-approaches the Edmonton, Alberta adoption agency. There are only spirit gods inside her empty purse. Inside, an infant, restrained from life, with a fruity wine sap apple wedged like a teaspoon of autumn sun inside its mouth. A shallow pool of tears starts to mount in native blue eyes. Snuffling, the mother offers a slim smile, turns away. She slithers voyeuristically through near slum streets, and alleyways, looking for drinking buddies to share a hefty pint of applejack wine. Want to comment on this poem? Click Here to go the Literary Review Discussion Forum (for the subject, enter "Comment on Harvest Time") |