After the storm walloped the coast
and before it spun itself out like a
weary dervish in the mountains to
the west of here,
it took the pecan tree by the throat
and showing not a lick of mercy
throttled it ‘til the entire harvest
was flung down.
It’s too early for them to cover so much
ground, mounded in heaps of green
amid root and moss, their flesh still
thick and unyielding.
You gathered them anyway,
hauled them to the sink and washed the
grit away, then arrayed them with hope
on a yellow towel to dry.
May they ripen into sweetness,
shells hard and crackable, because
the pie you’re bound to make will taste
better if it’s brown instead of green.
©Dana Hughes 9.20.17