Orion

Leeks

Two sticks in drifted snow 
mark the trench where I laid the leeks 
in cool dirt in October. 
Now I dig down through old 
frozen crust to damp dark hay 
to the thick grey green leaves 
of the leeks and pull them 
from the piled earth and 
shake dirt from their white 
hairy roots. They come up 
like creatures from under 
the ocean. In the half-cold, 
half-light the odor of earth 
gone all these long months 
wraps around me, and it is as if 
these leeks have come from 
a world where there are great 
pleasures of the body, where 
the mind grows smaller, where 
libraries mold in the dark, 
where worms in purple and brown 
rule the streets, and the corridors 
of power are moist and rich 
in a way that radio voices 
can’t conceive of, and the talk 
is of the thick trunk 
of seasons, the nose 
of rootedness, the eye 
that works its way through, 
hair that feels its way, 
the skull that follows, 
the toad of desire, the beetle 
of bone density, the grub 
of grief, the larva of longing, 
the moon coming up and the quiet 
at the end of February. 

I pick up the pile of leeks 
and carry them to the kitchen. 
I wash them clean. I chop them 
on the old board. I cook them 
in oil and salt. I taste 
their great sweetness. I remember 
that the earth will hum into spring.

— Abbot Cutler

Orion is celebrating National Poetry Month with thirty days of poetry. See more Orion poetry here.