POET | PLAYWRIGHT | TEACHING ARTIST
The tomatoes rotted on the vine before they’d ripened last spring. The strawberries never bore fruit. (Marie suggested using a feather to brush the pollen from one plant to another.) Did I tell you the spinach bolted before I recognized its maturity? I knew going in that I knew nothing. I shrugged, and figured I…
(Or The Weight of Garments in the Pull of the Stream) When we moved into this house, the old woman was digging turnips from the groundon a Sunday morning. She would cut back the rhododendronswhen they began to block the walkway to her front door. She would sort the decorative stonesblown into the flower beds.…
The tomatoes I replanted when they outgrew the greenhouse are now rotting greenly on the vine. I figure there is a metaphor there. The garden was never cultivated. I never cultivated the garden. The coriander sprouted – then flowered, and quickly went to seed. The beets were too crowded to thrive, and the sweet potatoes…