Cracking, hollow branches hang
from tired wire strung around
the high tunnel, a ghost of what once
flooded the plot with seven feet of
life has been hung by her toes and
now waits. I choose a stem to slice
free, careful not to spill the spoils
of her labor back to the soil, and
roll the hardened plants between
my fingers, forcing the seeds to leap
from their once elastic chaff.
They tumble and roll and
whisper memories of the spring.
I breathe in the destroyed leaves
and feel the pulse of their fresh,
feeble predecessors straining for
life as I placed them in the sweet
cradle of soil and fish guts, hoping
that one day I, too could learn to
make something out of nothing.
By the time I’ve stripped each limb
of her yield, my fingers are grey,
the sun has returned, and I
can see the endless output
of grains. The sea of growth
I once knew has now been reduced
to two totes, and I smile.
—
Abigail Ipjian is an emerging poet and farmer completing a BA in creative writing at the University of Washington. Much of her writing focuses on experiences in outdoor and growing spaces, as well as the connections made in these spaces with people, plants, creatures and more. Born and raised in northern Illinois, she is currently based in Seattle, WA.
