only grows where I don’t invite her, and for that I have nothing but respect. Vines cropped up in the middle of beds left fallow for the winter. To not care whether or not she was invited, the certainty that the fruit is a gift, makes me envious and brave. This too is a gift: tiny alien filament petals curlicue out towards the butterflies. So long as the root doesn’t freeze the plant can flourish, what a lesson for trying times. On Instagram the algorithm tells me gardens are cutesy and the world is fine, what a weird way to say every time the body is turned away the vine grips tighter.
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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.
