I Turned up the weeds without pity, spreading
their roots before the sun. Most of them died,
though a few tenacious grasses rolled over
when I was not looking, and sucked earth

till I found them skulking about, and banished them
to the heap with the egg shells and old tea leaves.
Returning to the scene of the massacre, I placed
a five tined fork before me, pointed toward

the earth's core. On its step I placed my boot's
sole, and drove its teeth home, tearing the living soil.
I confess, I did this many times, and in my hearing,
the dark loam whispered in protest. But what

was I to do? One must eat, and the white seeds
in their packet were waiting for the sun.
I carried a blue denim bag at my side,
and zippered it open, feeling about in its depths

like the housewife at the station platform
seeking her ticket for the last train--
Seizing my prize, I held it in my soiled palm,
reading the runes of the inscription:

"Date of last frost"; "zone three," "days
to maturity." How many days now to my own
maturity? Not to be thought of. My hands
began to shake. Tearing the thin paper rind,

I tipped out the contents: less than a shirtfront
of buttons. Five seeds to a hill I counted,
pinching their graves over them: three hills.
And on to other tasks. The rainmaker

whispered over the hilled earth all
the zone's days to maturity, and the date
of first frost held true. Almost forgotten in the rush
of gathering in the others: beans and corn, tomatoes--

I sought them last in October, the golden
fruits of that planting. My other crops
talk to me; the Hubbards never do. (What are they
dreaming at, over there? I bring out the knife.)

Now it is March, and I remember having gathered
the silent, sulking Hubbards. How are they faring?
A look into the pantry reveals them,
dour and uncommunicative, all

huddled like bollards on a high shelf.
I choose one to halve on the kitchen block,
scooping out seeds to dry and roast later,
then bake the halves till soft, per

Rombauer and Becker. I peel and dice them,
and in a mixing bowl add butter, brown sugar,
salt, ginger, and move the lot to the mixer,
remembering to add milk. With a bowl

of silent Hubbard thus richly dressed,
I go to the living room, asking a blessing
of the god of the steel fork and the weeds,
the rainmaker, the packet of white seeds,

booted foot and blue denim bag,
date of last frost and zone,
and the longtime summer sun, eating,
listening to a fugue by J. S. Bach.