Kennebecs and Tomatoes

Ah, that first year - when we still imaginedour sustenance - those first kennebecs,huge in the manure field, papered like birch,soft as creamed cheese. Dave’s mom planted there, but she was dead.He asked only a smidge of harvestfor the plot, new turned from blackand hereford compacted absence. And maybe he tasted his mother’s apron.Maybe he... Continue Reading →

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