Withering Mother

I was walking in the field that time The maize leaves blinding my eyes, Star thorns pricking my feet, I could hardly find what we were looking for; We kept on following our leader: He is the one who had sown everything, Within minutes he had picked five huge pumpkins, I had none at all. I felt my effort was being thwarted My will started to dwindle; I started following behind him, My eyes settled on a small pumpkin His leg already half astride passing it by I chose to show him how my eyes had opened. He said its mother had died: That's why it hadn't fully grown; Why it wasn't worth packing For the special people in Harare: We just left there holding on To its withering mother. It had not grown half for us to see What kind of pumpkin it would make: They are all green When they are not fully grown, But they change shape, Patterns of shade and what have you. Each time I think of the small pumpkin, I wish its mother had survived, While I could not explain the death With the rains having been so plush that season: It had fallen hard and soft and all.