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 […]


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 […]

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, […]