a seed an egg the sun silty clay and worms—

what isn’t like the farm?

everything starts small shrouded perhaps in the billowy powder blue grey fog of the headlands and ends


a golden glowing orb, sizzling squawk and song, lisianthus the size of a human heart, dahlias like slow motion fireworks, tulips big and bodacious, standing proud pedaling shimmering radiating life


thyme sown on a warm spring day, perennially wild and free, offering oil essential in the bright light madness of midsummer somewhere between the bloom and the harvest the sale and the slaughter the sweat and the smile when one asks “are my hands still on the wheel?” unbelievably they are we drive forward counting the days counting counting counting counting the deficit of time, of money counting the surplus of time, of money counting the wealth of your presence counting always because always i am in the business of you—

and at the equinox we can pause and breathe finally something like relief in the company of family and friends gathered round like a wreath, which is many in one, like this place we nurture, which is many in one, like how the water of two oceans poured together is truthfully one ocean reuniting with itself—

a wave a wave a seed an egg the sun silty clay and worms—

what isn’t like the farm?

when the day is equal to the night when a man is equal to a woman in wondering at their place in this transition between planes, geometric centers, and discs with feet planted firmly in the dirt, hard before the rain, fingers encrusted with faith in time, boots muddy in expectation of a blossom, soil everywhere signaling innumerable blessings, flesh of flower and animal, our selves becoming

in truth

one body breathing in love inextricable.