The Last Bloom, The First Bud, and the Miracle of Manure
Where do we go with the farm from here?
The last flower is spent, draped over the side of its miniature ceramic vase like Dali’s melting clock. Calendula, variety Zeolights.
Zeolights, I salute your neon tenacity, your fighting stance against the cold. You who fold up with the night darkness, open fully by midmorning, and offer up your pretty Riviera-sunny petals for salads and frittatas only when you are quite ready, thank you very much. Four of you came in for Thanksgiving, stayed the weekend, and fell out with the full moon.
