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 →


You ain’t no butterfly.Forget them wings.Ain’t nothing but worksore,blister and things. Ain’t nothing but cane -we ain’t nothing but cane.Come out that cocoon, baby,come stand in the rain. Come out from the womb.Come down from the bed.That Sickleman needs usin the barrow instead. Image: Haifsa Rafique on Unsplash

Plainsong #2 – a pastoral

Herefords lying down, asses to the wind - this bodes of rain. Cloud gray and anvil, clobber shot and some ways off, a cliff falls precipitous. There's manure in the air because it's November and the harvest is in. There's manure in the air for the fields need a feed before snow tangles the greeds... Continue Reading →

A Harvest Rushed

Russet clouds of harvest dust run low in the gully, settle in the sand pits, settle on a tongue and choke the throats of a damp fall. And there, below the drying towers, propane men wink into ledgers, as the combines churn on - the grains still plump - stalk still green at the soils,... Continue Reading →

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