by Joseph Stroud

    Three days into the journey

    I lost the Inca Trail

    and scrambled¹ around the Andes

    in a growing panic

    when on a hillside below snowline

    I met a farmer who pointed² the way——

    Machu Picchu allá， he said.

    He knew where I wanted to go.

    From my pack I pulled out an orange.

    It seemed to catch fire

    in that high blue Andean sky.

    I gave it to him.

    He had been digging in a garden，

    turning up clumps³ of earth，

    some odd， misshapen nuggets，

    some potatoes.

    He handed me one，

    a potato the size of the orange

    looking as if it had been in the ground

    a hundred years，

    a potato I carried with me

    until at last I stood gazing down

    on the Urubamba valley，

    peaks rising out of the jungle into clouds，

    and there among the mists

    was the Temple of the Sun

    and the Lost City of the Incas.

    Looking back now， all these years later，

    what I remember most，

    what matters to me most，

    was that farmer， alone on his hillside，

    who gave me a potato，

    a potato with its peasant face，

    its lumps and lunar craters⁴，

    a potato that fit perfectly⁵ in my hand，

    a potato that consoled me as I walked，

    told me not to fear，

    held me close to the earth，

    the potato I put in a pot that night，

    the potato I boiled above Machu Picchu，

    the patient， gnarled potato

    I ate.

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