The land remembers. Garlic comes up where I planted it last year, even three years ago. The land knows where an old chicken pen once stood long before I bought this farm, and the greens grow better there. The soil is electric with insects and churning worms, the chemistry of roots, fungi and bacteria, a system of interconnected life more complicated than that tangle of neurons we call a brain. What I do to the soil on this farm will not be forgotten.
And so with winter firmly settled on The Dandelion Farm, I gather four more poets and spread their words into this strange new tangle in interconnectivity, a web of electronics and buzzing wires, and wonder if there is a decent metaphor between farming and an online journal of poetry. Maybe it’s too much of a stretch. But maybe a line of one of these poems will cause a spark in someone else’s mind, feed an idea, send up a green spear of thought the way garlic comes up in winter, in places where I swore I’d harvested every bulb last summer, but it returns, feeds me for another year.
Patrick Loafman, editor