Allen Braden
RHUBARB BABY
for Kate, my sister
There's a story older than the hills
about the rhubarb in somebody's backyard
flourishing through the thick of winter,
the worst blizzard anyone could recall.
Even crazier is the part about a young couple
who found, of all the things on earth, a baby
cupped under the snow and leaves like umbrellas,
who took her in and raised her as one of theirs
and as if this wasn't miracle enough,
just last week that mess of rhubarb
burst through a crust of frost once more
and that baby, now a grown woman,
was glad and snapped each of the slender stalks
as close to the frozen ground as she could
and tucked them deep down in the folds of her apron
to trundle home for scrubbing, dicing and baking
with a boxcar of bleached flour sifted well
and churn after churn of butter
and granulated sugar by the gunnysack
and handfuls of cinnamon flung in the oven.
Then once the crust was stoked to gold
like magic, she welcomed every household
from across the valley to wedge after wedge
of more than they could have ever hoped for,
plenty more of a bitterness turned sweet.
Copyright 1998, Allen Braden
Allen Braden has received a grant from Artist Trust, a Grolier Poetry
Prize and a Sam Ragan Prize. His poetry has appeared nationally in Shenandoah,
Greensboro Review, The Southern Review and The
Georgia Review, and locally in Poetry Northwest, Clackamas
Literary Review,and Raven Chronicles. A fourth generation resident
of Washington State, he grew up in White Swan and lives in Puyallup. "Rhubarb
Baby" was previously published in Open Spaces, Fall 1998, and Pontoon,
1999.
Switched-on Gutenberg/Vol. 4, No. 2
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