They were ready in October, after
all other harvests,
hard orange fingers shaped
in prayer, waiting for us
to amen with a heavy shovel.
They appeared endless
from the dark wet sleeve.
You knocked them against
the bed plank, buttons
of loam tumbling loose.
I scrubbed each gritty knuckle
in a bucket with hose water
until my own fingers were pink.
Then we shared one, a secret
that grew in the dark, splintered
again and again in my mouth.