As I write these words, my last seeds are dying. From my seat at the oak desk my father’s grandfather bought in a yard sale in Worcester, Massachusetts in 1948 for fifteen dollars, I look out the window at the furrows I plowed in the dusty soil and see my little green shoot withering. In the old thermometer hanging from the eaves, the mercury has surged past one twenty. Winter in Vermont. I feel like writing, for the first time in years. I think this is the end.