The sun’s energy powers these forests, not for one month as it does in the Taiga, but for half the year.
— Planet Earth, episode 10, “Seasonal Forests”
At the farm fundraiser I lock eyes with a woman I cannot place
as her eyes look with love to the stage
where my friend leans her head back
on the wall of the house in a pose of satisfied exhaustion —
she’s pulled some strings to bring in the Massachusetts Cheese Guild,
of which she’s a Founding Enthusiast Member.
This town used to be all farms — road names tell truth
to suburbanites — but now there’s only one farm left in town
and the mayor has a grudge against it.
The farm has been busy raising funds and drumming up publicity,
volunteers move seedlings into the greenhouse
that they are being forced to demolish and rebuild a few feet over.
I was not certain my marriage (or the farm) would make it through the winter,
our sleeping forms in separate beds (letters silently passed back and forth) —
but by late spring, the landscape is wrapped in a vibrant fresh green.
I pile a plate high with great balls of goat cheese rolled in pink
and purple flowers, three kinds of crumbling, decadent blue,
a creamy Gouda, a hard aged cheddar with a deep yellow rind,
dates stuffed with soft, sweet, funky chèvre, strings of pickled
carrots and ginger, bunches of dewy grapes, slices of sourdough toast —
the only thing pulling me away from the cheese table is the sight of my friend
waiting for me in the shadow by the steps
who will answer my many dumb questions.
She says, “the best season for cheese depends on if it’s fresh or aged,”
and my mouth chews, full and happy like a squirrel —
a distracted squirrel is an easy target for the pine marten —
my guard is down, I haven’t thought about my troubles in at least an hour.
I’m trying not to turn this thing into a religion, but I can understand why people did —
maypoles and bonfires and crowns of daisies —
and the fundraiser begins at sundown on Friday night,
so I’m reminded of Shabbat:
radical release from control and domination!
collective interruption of boss exploitation!
and it’s May Day, so a rousing fuck you to you, Ms. Mayor!
And though the evening is damp and chilly,
it is twilight and we are at a party
and it’s Shabbat, so I can’t help it:
I kiss my husband between mouthfuls of cheese.
After their break, the band starts up again
and plays Al Green and Sly covers to get the people off their butts.
It’s hard not to make this religious, but I have, because
what is truly due is this rest, is this bread and cheese
and these little LED lights strung around the porch
and the last light of day
and the lawn stretched flat out for about an acre
and the line of greenhouses and a high brick wall framing the land
and across the grass a big leafy tree
ringed with white flowers underneath like a blanket spread for a picnic
and my heart lifts like a parachute
as the music finishes and a mist of applause goes up the steps
as a woman with long curly hair
and a little girl
in a light summer dress
cartwheel across the field.
Click here to read Josette Akresh-Gonzales on the origin of the poem.
Image by Edward Howell on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- The Gates Open - May 19, 2026