The Solomon Farm (Poem)

The scent of deet and fish bait (chicken liver and crickets)
accompanied our outings, along with the dull aroma of
Georgia pond water, which only ripples in the wind.

I learned about tadpoles there, catching them in opaque
plastic cups and watching them swivel around endlessly.
I didn’t believe in evolution, not even in the life of
a tadpole, never able to catch them in their metamorphosis.

Dad saved our dog there, caught on a trot line
suspended by Clorox bleach jugs…

Tackle boxes brought both fantasy and frustration:
hooks, baits, plastic worms, and pliers, clanging around
with the chance of impalement always high for a young boy.

We grilled out by the pond that was carved out of a blueberry
field with a tin shed used for storage at its eastern edge.
It always smelled of dust, either from fertilizer or time.
A dangling light bulb with one of those clanky chains
hovered above the miscellaneous farm equipment inside:
irrigation joints, drip tape, mower attachments, and
rusty bolts never to be used again.

There were these trees by the water with silkworms. I once
saw one fall into the pond to be quickly snapped up
by a brim—the web of life on that parcel of land just
dry enough not to be a swamp.

It’s a strange harmony. And yes, the gnats do eventually go away.

Photo Credit: cottonbro