Digging Poem by James McLain

We arnt here to talk about my mother's digging,
though here we are.

Many years ago and up to now.
Around each plant she did.
Lot's of digging.

Hot peppers as a child I'd rub my eyes.
Telling me the sting was what her father ate.

Mistakes like that aren't meant for me to make.
Though growing up I had.
Peppers that never went eaten bad.

Southern biscuits and sausage gravy.
Grandma's always knew.
What pepper tasted best.

Digging with her hands my mother dug.
To make him happy.
Her stepfather and his garden we all ate from.
I think her digging came from home.
Like all the rest.