Word: harvester
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...south, but beginning to think, I hope, of spring. The trees are so old that no one around here can identify the kind of apples they bear - not especially apple-shaped, but resembling ancient gnomes, or a leprechaun's collection of shrunken heads. A meager harvest. The deer eat them, but we do not. We're hoping to bring the orchard back. We pruned one tree last year so radically that it was more stump than tree, but since then it has managed an irrepressible little renaissance, firing fresh shoots up out of its own ruins...
...tlese: the name means "late-harvest," and the additional ripeness of the grapes makes them good candidates for dry, or trocken, wines...
...book deal, and he may also talk to agents in Manhattan eager to package this most mediagenic figure into a brand: big-ticket speeches taped to become one-hour specials; missions to Africa turned into PBS series, to do for the starving masses in the sub-Sahara what Harvest of Shame did for migrant workers...
...Friedman has a journalistic alter ego, Atlantic Monthly correspondent and author Robert Kaplan, who saw only gathering gloom and doom as the harvest of the West's Cold War triumph. His influential 1994 essay "The Coming Anarchy" described a world in which the prosperity and stability of the industrialized world is subsumed by mounting anarchy as the collapse of nation states (and their replacement by a combination of transnational corporations and tribal militia), the scarcity of resources, and the globalization of disease and crime accelerate in the vacuum created by the Cold War's end. And where the political class...
...along." I never have to ask where are the flowers? Sun? Where are the mothers? Fathers? Where are the old marrieds? Where are the children, "adjudged the leastwise of the land"? Where are the riots? Where are the prophets? Where is the sound "that we are each other's harvest"? I see them in her poems that breathe women in a blaze of upsweeps and backyards and ballads, in her children dancing between urine and violets, in her singing to us between the sleeping and the waking. And as she entered into our 21st century bloodstream, paddling a river...