An alien look, native to the wetland prairies. The single stalk of crisp, oval leaves, topped with spherical clusters fighting for space, looms over small humans by the start of summer.

The umbels change from pale white to a deep rose. Then open.
The crowns then fade from a light pink to white. Then fall.

It’s counter intuitive. 

A month of imperceptible growth, then suddenly the tomatoes reach a stakeable height.  Flowers start to bloom.  First a single tight truss, then multiple. The predecessor to reds, yellows, and purples.  To pizzas, canned salsa, and grilled flanks. 

And yet…

A necessary part of the plan: delay returns, maximize the vine, increase the eventual bounty. Coordinated heartless execution.
Delayed gratification.

Now the hard choice:

I pinch the other truss on this vine and move on. The draw of what is is too strong.

A few today. A handful tomorrow. And the next day.

For weeks a few raspberries mature each sunny day.

Negotiating plant to human fruit transfers demands daily review of the canes, otherwise an enterprising chipmunk or rabbit may take their pick. A half bite that teases: the top drupelets appear undisturbed, but an unfortunate surprise when picked. In my hand not the expected orb, but a shard whose structure threatens collapse. A missing bottom still dripping of the bandit’s bite.

Early in the harvest season, select your path:
each day a cup of yogurt topped with raspberries
or embrace the inner mage, hoarding for a potion?

Fridge a cache until there are two heaping cupped handfuls.
Over steady flame, mix with half the weight in sugar.
A splash of lemon juice.

In a few minutes, stir. Aggregates still intact with a sugar coating.

A few more minutes and your spoon finds familiar shapes,
but the details are starting to obscure.

A few more minutes and the forms are melting.
A soupy slurry with a few enduring globs.

A few more minutes and the cauldron begins to boil.
Molten red goo bubbles and pops.
Stir slowly as it thickens. Darkens.

Check the form with a splatter on a frozen plate.
Slowly the molten ooze fills, cools, and congeals in a jar.

Weeks of a sweet, tart slime to smear across toast,
or boil and store the sealed jars for a time when nothing grows.

Rain overnight precedes sweltering sunny days. Inhalation feels less like air, more like Jello. An atmosphere where vines thrive.

Growth faster than I can keep up, which is how I miss a secondary vine break from the strategy to amble through the tomato patch. By the time I notice, the vine has been severed a few feet into the patch. One tendril on the now wilting amputated arm rests on the edge of the door. As I visualize the series of events I see Sola staring. Not a threat. A reminder of her readiness to protect the reservoir.

Message sent.

I mow and the clover comes back in force. Small blooms revel in bunches across the lawn and then they keep multiplying.

On the edges, grasses grow tall. Unencumbered the wild encroaches as overgrowth builds at the perimeter and starts flowing in.

Horseweed, in its martian form, matures, clearing its short spurt. Stalk thickening in ways site maintenance doesn’t generally permit. I ponder the reasoning for the change in policy as I grab the bucket and kneeling pad. While some areas can be permitted to go wild, those that threaten the plan require attention. Management.

I search for the competing priorities that are permitting the temporary retreat. Nothing fits the bill. The excavation of artifacts hasn’t expanded; it looks untouched. Vines of morning glory are winning along the fence. I expanded the pumpkin patch, but there is no sign of extra caretaking redirected there.

I make a mental map of the areas I’ll have to address. I add a note to observe Hopper. What is taking precedence to this year’s plan? A shindig I didn’t know was on the books or a mishap that causes a sudden abandonment of the order?

Frustrated I work, cursing the lack of balance. Consistency.

I think back to the last time I spotted Hopper. It was the incident with the kit: it’s been more than a few days. I write it off as a time to rest. Regroup.

Then another day goes by. And another.

I scan the site when I get home and again just before sun down. Searching longingly for the absence. Research confirms the life expectancy of an urban cottontail. Much shorter than my observations of Hopper.

No sound of nibbles or swish through long grasses. He doesn’t respond to calls. Initially, attributed to time with the kits or obligations beyond the boundaries. But the calls increase in frequency and alarm. Scan the site for hours for a sign, a hint.

This has been mourned before. There one day, then with no goodbye, nothing. Learning the outcome is a race against the clock. Evidence and memories fade. Not knowing lacks an expiration date. An eternal lack of certainty. Acceptance of assumption for lack of other conclusions. Eventually.

He wasn’t The Verderer, just the latest in a long line over the ancient history of this site. Trybun was here when it was still a farm. Older at the time than cottontails tend to reach now. She spoke softly, comforting to newcomers. You were welcome with the understanding that she kept an order that you would respect.

Tidende was the keeper when the house was first built on Plot 17. His order was strict. But he accepted that you could change and welcomed you back when you were ready.

Hopper was the latest and while only here a little over four years, understood the history of the role and the site. Respectful of all that came before and eager to learn from those who were here.

Hopper, you will be missed.

Caretaker isn’t always a direct handoff. It used to be more common, but recently gaps in service are more of an expectation. As it turns out, that is fine.

This isn’t the crown lands of a monarchical succession. The site selects its verderer. It waits for one who is worthy and committed. There is no clock. The competing interests, now without a representative to keep the peace, might test the limits. But the site doesn’t let disturbance rush the selection. Because a right choice will be made and it will keep the order until the next. The wait, while uncomfortable, is a necessary part of the process.

And once the selection is made, in some unknown way, the history and reverence of the site gets transferred. Hopper knew without knowing his predecessor, Pince, who was very willing to disrupt the previous tenant’s plan. Pince knew about the interests who were here, and then, so did Hopper. He knew about the pasts and how the compromises were reached. And eventually, so will the site’s next caretaker.

A first pop at the base, then a chain reaction in succession up the tube. As one bursts, the next bud is already growing, deepening in color. Telegraphing the pattern. In a couple days the first twenty blooms become hundreds. A full 360 degree display starts above the surrounding prairie flowers, towers over the peppers and eggplants. It draws all the attention, visible across the site and over the fences. A slow burn, observed for the peak.

Inevitably, the end is the same. Only a few days into the climbing bloom and the first petals wilt. The solid tube starts to disintegrate from the bottom up. Connected, as one climbs the other follows. A cycle that repeats.

As the blooms near the end, and wilting reaches the middle, the ensuing cycle begins. Small green orbs form. Solid and juicy, cocooning the seeds of a possible future line. Slowly forming, then drying. Plant in the fall for a new hope. See what sprouts next year. If all goes right, what might bloom in a few years.

Small fruits appear along the cucumber vines. As I work along a cage, I find one further along. Hidden by a leaf, already larger than my thumb.

An eggplant, the plant growing just fast enough to keep the fruit off the ground.

An advanced plan nearing its peak.

The fairies of Plot 17 watch over this record.
Would be thieves: they will know.
Your produce rots by morning.
Dreams of horrors you can't name.
You leave home and walk in circles:
close enough to see where you're going,
never arriving.