Tater Lent

Tater Lent

They’ve grown stubby white fingers
  These leftover spuds that linger
In a wood box in a corner
  Of the basement where it’s cool

Some call them eyes, yet as any-
  One can plainly see they’re blind
Left under this tarp in the dark
  But for the Yankee Cook to find

Time of the year there’s a logic to Lent,
  Most taters from this box were spent
Peeled nightly for a dinner side dish
  Or diced in soup, now I relent

Here’s just enough left for seed stock
  Which if eaten now leaves none for planting
Which reason’s now they’re only borrowed
  And to the earth some must return

That means Lent

… and anyway they’re gone a bit
  wrinkly dried and moldy