The Wooden Potato Barrel

Who would have thought

That at ten years old

I would treasure a barrel

Much more than gold...

It was back east

At the tip of Maine

The bitter cold mornings,

When potato season came.

I would walk through the field

With the other workers there,

Was given my section for picking;

Potatoes, more than my share.

My hands clothed with gloves

That were new from the store

Still held cold dried dirt

From the day before.

My fingers half around a handle

Held a basket big for my size,

I searched to the sky,

Praying for the sun to rise.

The digger came by

Exposing two fresh rows;

I prepared myself by stretching,

My palms to my toes.

When once the whistling wind

Possessed me inside,

I desperately started searching

For a sheltered place to hide.

I looked all around me,

Nothing but miles of field...

When I spotted my refuge..

My barrel......my shield.

I laid it on it's side,

The bottom against the wind,

Knelt down to the ground

And crawled safely in.

Savoring the moments

Of the comfort I'd found,

My boots turned to slippers,

My woolen cap to a crown.

My old faded coat

Became a gown of lace..

And the barrel around me...

Became God's embrace.