By Niki Kantzios

in the barn.
I see a greenhouse.
End of the reign for
a pile of rotting frames
that have served out a century
at least,
shedding putty as
a porcupine flings quills?
Or a cradle where
a new generation
of tomatoes will swing
in edible infancy?
Peering through
the watery panes
like ice, like eisinglass,
I see a sun-
jungled tomorrow.
They see the past.

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