 I must have been eight the first time I saw one. I was in third grade. We were learning about plants and trees and how the ones right outside started out as seeds. No one ever told me how much of a treasure they were. That they're the backbone of life, our life. That their value exceeds that of a da Vinci or Monet. Farmers are like art gallery curators and painters themselves. Marble floors soft like soil, peering between blades of grass like a magnifying glass. Brushstrokes careful in this act of restoration. Cultivation. The sun a chandelier. Golden rays like candles burning flames. Beating down on hunched backs. On callous hands. Shining armor worn but still reflects where we were. Still protects where we ought to be. In the kingdom of crops, a castle of culture, of community, of your grandmother's oldest recipe, a taste just as it did the first time. At her beginning and my end, your past and my future, our present gift of time spent waiting for seeds to grow. The seeds we sow in scattered grass in third grade class. And like birds perched, we wait.