To whomever left the great bouquet of parsley in the garden—

thank you.

 

We heard some engine sound from far across the field

and went to see

and saw

a tractor, red, turning soil into silk

tilling long, slow rows and turning long, slow turns

and with each turn the garden turned from crumpled earth to silk.

 

And there before the tractor was

the parsley.

A great mound of green—

a beacon green amidst a sea of soil.

And I imagined rabbits

dancing

holding hands in the light of last Sunday’s round orange moon

praising parsley sacred as the cows of India—

so sacred it should go untouched all through the frosts

and through the snows of winter.

 

Untouched—

but then there was that tractor, turning

plowing slow rows, slow.

 

And so I stepped into, onto, unto the unturned earth

and took

your parsley (sacred parsley)

just before the tractor turned its turn

to mow.

 

So.

 

If you would like one last bite of this year’s parsley—

sacred parsley—

sacred as the cows of India—

parsley praised by

rabbits far and wide—

please, do come visit. 

We have some in our fridge.

 

We shall be eating it

and feeding it to friends

and to family

and to rabbits who dance

by the light of the hunter’s moon.