I live alone; I pick pecans.
When leaves are dry
or wet upon the ground,
I thrash the trees.
I break from branches
undropped, green-husked nuts
and pull the fleshy hulls
from harder shells.
I put them in my musty burlap bag.
My bent back aches.
I pick the nuts that fall to earth --
blown by wind, wrenched
from over-weighted twigs.
I store this trove with acrid smells
in burlap bags.
The nut man calls but twice a year.
He brings the news; we drink a beer.
He pays me well,
refreshes my supply
of dusty burlap hell.
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