The Last Farm Stand She comes laden across the bay, and I am halfway down the hill to the ferry when I say, “Emptyhanded is emptyheaded,” returning to retrieve from its copper peg a Grolier sack to stock my cellar with pattypan, kusa, zephyrs. All summer her business blossomed with the kind of random offering no shopping list would ever approve of. Unlike Tellus and her syncretic children, she wears the spelt crown of Ceres whose harvests leaven dampened spirits....
