Karina Borowicz, September Tomatoes
[text ID: The whiskey stink of rot has settled / in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises / when I touch the dying tomato plants. / Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms / flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots / and toss them in the compost. / It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready / to let go of summer so easily. To destroy / what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months. / Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit. / My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village / as they pulled the flax. Songs so old / and so tied to the season that the very sound / seemed to turn the weather.]

















