The herb gardens: gone.
Only sage remains, adrift
in a sea of soil and hay.
In the fields, dark rippled kale
overlooks a fuzz of winter rye.
Crows scatter from the squash
smashed atop the compost pile
as I approach. The mountains
are turning purple, turning pale,
leaves fallen.
It’s hard not to feel sorrow.
Even these sheep, looking up
from their salt lick to nose
a green tomato, are destined
for slaughter…
But look at the farmer’s house.
On a tall extension ladder
he tapes windows. Soon
seed catalogues will trickle
into the mailbox like rain.
by Rachel Barenblat of Velveteen Rabbi
Poignant and beautiful, sad yet hopeful, Rachel. It really sits well with the gorgeous photo below ( great choice Fiona!).
Bittersweet. Rolling this around on my tongue tasting the mixed flavors. Nicely done.