our crops died a few years back

or decades depending on who you ask

or maybe they never really grew

dutifully wilting to the blade they worshiped

and succumbing to their manicured height

and the inevitability

of joining the dust

that seemed to eat the town

but we didn’t mind too much

because they were easier to pull

having never lived

and we didn’t feel much

when they left us

and now and again

we wondered where they went

sometimes we couldn’t tell

at all

and sometimes those tending

our protrusions

would lie in the shade they made

and talk to them

about losing the farm

or the rain water we didn’t drink

or the regret they sowed

in our leaves

and we wondered if the harvest would stop

someday

or if we would continue to feed people

who had stopped eating

around the time the crops died