I did not write these lines. I found them in an almanac from 1911 and arranged them into something closer to verse than the practical prose they were originally meant to be.
Frost dates. Planting instructions. A single, stray note about a comet, wedged between advice on curing ham. Read together and rearranged, they start to sound like something closer to prayer than instruction.
The found poem is a strange, humble form - you are not the author so much as the editor of someone else's attention, a century removed, hoping you have arranged their words into something they would recognize as true.
