Murray “POP POP’s” his leather gloves, applauding the sun’s arrival
and rests them on the wooden bench next to an old metal 

barrel ¼ full of speckled sea.
Sunflower seeds freshly loosed from their nooks, 

dried stalks and empty flower heads lay crisp 
on the compost, returning the favor owed.

He dips his hand in to stir and admire the harvest,
lifting a fistful to scatter to his neighbors, winged and skittering alike. 

His “Thank you for your patience” dissipates into the cool air
as he makes his way over to split more wood for the deep chill rolling in. 

In a few hours, he’ll return home with dried pieces 
for the woodstove. He’s given himself the day to

Rinse.
Salt.
Boil.

He sighs into the chair his father built and picks through the seeds 
he’s saved for replanting when the birch leaves return tender and green.

Brined and steaming, he spreads the speckled sea over a metal sheet
holding their scent with care. He slips one onto his tongue 

and his brow softens as he chews,
thumb resting against his lips. 

Roast.

Soft crackling seeps out with the smell of afternoons 
they’d spent roasting and planning for the frost before this became a task 

for one. Toasted white, 
whispering a prayer for the winter— 

he splits the shell in half to meet its kernel. Warm, 
woody, sweet and salty as sea mist. He savors another.

He gathers a small handful meant for his right cheek,
and slips through the screen door, onto the porch.

Cracking, splitting, and spitting shells 
peppering the grass below. All glowing

golden with the old barrel, compost, and worn gloves—
bathing in the grace of dusk.

—

Shadiyat Ajao is a poet based in Harlem. She holds an MFA from The New School and is currently an assistant editor for Conjunctions. Her work has appeared in The Inquisitive Eater, 3Elements Literary Review, and Blaze Vox Journal Online. She firmly believes that rest is resistance and sends tweets sometimes @write_i_diyat.