Tuesday, October 18th, 2016

Field, Autumn.

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To whomever left the great bouquet of parsley in the gardenβ€”

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

tillingΒ 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 greenβ€”

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 Indiaβ€”

so sacred it should go untouched all through the frosts

and through the snows of winter.

 

Untouchedβ€”

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 parsleyβ€”

sacred parsleyβ€”

sacred as the cows of Indiaβ€”

parsley praised by

rabbits far and wideβ€”

please, do come visit.Β 

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’sΒ moon.

 

 

 

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