#september tomatoes

[metamorphesque]

musings on september

― Dominic Riccitello, Huang O, Haruki Murakami, Karina Borowicz (artwork by Michael Dudash) 

[sapphireshorelines]

[aemperatrix]

[waterflowrr]

three letters, she loves me // karina borowicz // francis forever, mitski 

[madame-verte]

“The whiskey stink of rot has settled in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises when I touch the dying tomato plants. Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots and toss them in the compost. It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready to let go of summer so easily. To destroy what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months. Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit. My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village as they pulled the flax. Songs so old and so tied to the season that the very sound seemed to turn the weather.”

- Karina Borowicz, September Tomatoes.

[immaplane]

It feels cruel. Something in me isn't ready to let go of summer that easily. To destroy what I've carefully cultivated all these months.

Karina Borowicz, September Tomatoes

[metamorphesque]

Karina Borowicz, September Tomatoes

[text ID: The whiskey stink of rot has settled / in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises / when I touch the dying tomato plants. / Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms / flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots / and toss them in the compost. / It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready / to let go of summer so easily. To destroy / what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months. / Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit. / My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village / as they pulled the flax. Songs so old / and so tied to the season that the very sound / seemed to turn the weather.]    

[6peaches]

Karina Borowicz - September Tomatoes

The whiskey stink of rot has settled in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises when I touch the dying tomato plants.

Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots and toss them in the compost.

It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready to let go of summer so easily. To destroy what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months. Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.

My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village as they pulled the flax. Songs so old and so tied to the season that the very sound seemed to turn the weather.

- September Tomatoes by Karina Borowicz