qarrtsiluni

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