Potato pilots

Potato pilots

Flight school in the spring,

New pilots: round, firm,

Clustered companionably, well starched,

Believe they will live forever;

Breeze through their lessons,

Landing and take off still the hardest parts.

Fly blind all through the summer,

Burrow at tuber speed through well-turned soil,

Balk at crossing rivers,

Avoid arid regions,

Recognize their own mortality,

Fear blight the most.

In autumn, tubers are unearthed.

Most are quickly captured,

Sold into slavery, and greedily devoured;

Top-gun pilots straighten their ties,

Shake off the top soil,

And fly into the sunset.

end

Publ: Star*line 28.2, 2005