Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett
There must be a kind of opposition to this already.
My letters have not been received on the account of slow postal service – or yourself.
Sweet winds beckon and snow catches scarves tucked over noses.
They breached summer ails which fanned cheerful sunflowers trampling one another – reaching for sunlight and to be gazed upon by those passing by. Their view of light, while nearly blinding, shallow their roots making way for the next season’s crop.
Sweet winds, sweet winds, but nothing to pass between them. The silence was on my part, I wanted to sit and watch the sunflowers for a stretch. My tilling undone, I found a new garden.
Do you hear this?
Farming came naturally though words did not.
You told me once of a boy and a horse and expected me to captivate on him rather. You told me of a motorized kitten and of hunters in the woods. Told me once of illness which came only after mine. Once of snow and the crispness of the wind that still bites your nose. Of your hatred of David Byrne and the distaste you had for the hills leading up to class.
I offered, once, to help you with your words. You accused the priest of sleeping with the farmhand. We snuck over a garden wall and spoke of verses that others had whispered in our ears. He told me you sung to him, lyrics of Zimri and threatened Ahithophel, and that words were mirrored. It was wicked, but I still think you drew no shame on commissioned fairytales.
Treasure, as expected, only lasts a year’s time. Its glamour and its promises falter when the jeweler expects infinity but invests in fish. Wedding bells can ring, but a fox will always find its way through the hen house.
I have stewed, that is for certain.
I’ve baked under your insolence
Grateful nearly two years; our farm has done well under the direction of a scarecrow.
Give it water and nurture the sheep as the priest and the farmhand should have and set them free before you should decide to knit.