Harvest by Holly Day

we found the tomatoes grew best in the cemetery

sending their thick roots deep

into the soil, wrapping thickly-furred cilia between

sinew and bone, found new life in places

left for the dead.

we threw our seeds random between

the overgrown plots, hoping the tiny plants would escape

the eyes of the caretaker, the blades of his mower

the heavy footsteps of other people

visiting other graves.

late summer, when the vines rose high

climbed around the rough trunks

of ancient willows of firs

we crept into the graveyard, baskets under our arms

collected enough ripe fruit to last through

the long, cold winter ahead.

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing).