Tipping Point

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 Tipping Point


About the soul’s mid-June, roughly, 

(were there an inner almanac 

beside the Farmer’s on the shelves

to help us chart the rhythms 

of ourselves,) that even the most meticulous 

pincher of pokeweed, snapper of shoots, 

de-rooter of dandelion is of a sudden

laid up with the Summer scratch, returning 

only to discover that—blame it on ill

luck, this rain, our partners not pulling

their weight—we’re fucked. 


There’s no coming back from this. 


It’s only then, despite our neglect,  

call it mid-July by the same predictor

of patterns, that we step out 

nonetheless to pick the first leaves  

of lettuce, wicker basket of beans. 

What we don’t get to pick 

is what it all means, though ours   

this earthen bowl, the homegrown mix,

drowning as it is in vinaigrette.


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