Riverhill Farm

Against alphabetical indoctrination, let's start
by blessing the zinnias, whose color nourishes
our famished eyes, whose fortitude in a vase of water
is legendary. Today they're only a fuzz of green
along the path, but we can feel them growing,
bright flags of summer, and the heavy, sexy
heirloom tomatoes that we'll hold in our hands
and eat like apples, the green beans, the spinach,
the quiet potatoes sleeping beneath us, gathering
color and strength.

                Praise to bok choy and French
breakfast radish, to the earthworms who transform
this dirt length by length. Praise to fennel and sage,
to the low-lying strawberries and lofty pears,
praise to appetite, satiety, and photo-copied notes
on what to do with arugula.

                We bow to the labor
that hallows this ground and the memory of all
who have worked here: mules, chickens, goats, diesel
engines, draft horses, Italian immigrants, interns
from Wyoming. Praise to their strength, to sun, rain,
and manure, to the conquering of doubt and to vision.
Praise to the eaters. Praise to what offers itself
to be eaten.