Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2000 |

Our Reserves

Translated from Hungarian by Paul Sohar We rake over the old ash pile and bake apples on the remaining embers and a squash. We bury potatoes in the root cellar, in softly sniffling sand the carrots, we put out the bubbling craters of the prune preserve, send out for extra canning jars; rattling above us is a wax paper sky. We finish up this year's lard spreading it on bread for the children, on their feet we pull up flannel socks, explaining that winter's on its way. Winter's on the way.

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