The sun is supercharged; liquid, humid
summer that sends tomato seedlings shooting
towards the greenhouse roof. Shade
cloth barely dulls the heat inside; powdery
mildew climbs the cucumbers. The ritual:
trim infection, spray, and trim again. Bemoan
the heat, the weirding and wilding world of
seasons. It’s the end of the day, and still
everything isn’t done: there are dishes, there
are the plants at home wanting water. A chocolate
mint seedling, burned badly in the last freak
frost, grows back slowly, takes its time reemerging.
I always keep half-dead plants longer now,
knowing how prone they are to returning from the
dead, how the staunch desire to grow overrides
common sense and common ailments. The farm
is good, the farm is glowing, the farm is a cup
running over with tomatoes. Even in little nursery
pots they grow two feet tall and flower, even now
in moonlight they are growing.
—
Tova Kranz is a writer, editor, and farmer living in North Carolina. She studied English at Florida State University and the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Her poems have been published in 86 Logic, Blue Heron Review, and elsewhere. Her poem “Fermentation” was nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Her musings on farming can be found at tovakranz.substack.com.
