THE HARVEST

I rummaged through its hollow womb
Scouring for the tuber I had planted
On this once rich earth
Is it not harvest?
Or am I too impatient for the opportune time

But Mr. Akidi left his farm yesterday
Bountifully, wearing smiles.
Yes, my village people are at it again

Was it not last harvest
My field bloomed
With blossoming tendrils
Of fine tubers in prospect?

Many a man from my kindred
Stood and gaBoldped in envy
Spitting curses of poor harvest
On my poor field.

Now my blackacre lays waste
Barren and leached
Like a cactus-less desert
And a canopy of grey leaves
Evenly littered to its very end.

This is your poet @ayoyemi1