Sometimes I like to imagine being a farmer. It’s so much more pleasant than actually growing things. I would point to my tomatoes. I would, but I won’t. They’re far too sensitive. A careless glance and they break out in blossom end rot. (Suggestive definition, no?) Good weather? Sunshine is brutality; they hang limp as scolded children. A good, cleansing drink of water? Cracks to hide in. But I am a slave to their luscious beauty, trapped in a humiliating one-sided relationship. Until I need a salad. Right now will do fine.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s