This Fall. This year. It does feel like falling. Or jumping. Or closing. Or opening. This weekend, I went with Evan to our plot in the community garden—a last-ditch effort for half-assed farmers. We harvested. It was a mess. A muddy, sad, overgrown, viney mess… with much to harvest, but another much to grieve. As… Continue reading then we fall.
wull hay. 