Volume 25, Number 1

The New Farm

we plant the apple trees in long, straight rows, twist
the thin, soft limbs into gang symbols, secret signs
chuckle amongst ourselves at the thought of a someday forest of giant hands
flash-frozen in “East Side!” “Longhorns!” and “peace.”

halfway through the day, we break for lunch, spread picnic blankets
on the unturned earth, contemplate the mechanics
of crop circles, wonder
how many sunflowers we'd have to plant
to make a smiley face visible from space.

—Holly Day