One night, we drove
through the dark,
over familiar gravel roads
generally traveled over
in the light of day.
We unpacked our sheers
and buckets and began
wandering the rows,
backs bent and headlamps
pointed down, choosing
our clusters carefully.
We took our time
and would savor
those fruits for years.
Its early on a Monday morning. Cold and quiet.
I coworker assembles a lab in the other room.
She puts the pieces together. I hear glass clinking
and it makes me miss you. How odd for her
to be touching your things. I watch her
and think to myself “you’re doing it wrong.”
Farming has made me see the world in cycles.
Clear and pronounced and complicated.
I feel torn, wanting rain for myself, but thinking – not yet.
Not just yet, the grapes aren’t ready.
Just a week more of sun. Maybe two.
Yesterday was National Guacamole Day.
A year ago on that day I told you
about the occasion, excited by my discovery.
You said, “We’d better go get some guac then.”
And we did.