Farmer’s Market.

Corn on the cob, husked by my not-yet-husband as I tend to the tomatoes.

Accidental vegetarians, farmers.

Fresh cut watermelon made the air taste sweet.

Followed by the smell of blueberry peach muffins, the essence of summer.

Hand-folded batter, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and love.

Windows open, crickets singing over your voice,

“Mmm those muffins are smelling real good, Babe.”

Tonight, I will sleep with a full belly, full heart.

 

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Collision.

Last night I dreamt of driving in the snow.

Icy roads, poor visibility, hazardous conditions.

Yet the city was silent.

The snow fell so softly its as if someone pressed pause

And I was the only one who couldn’t stop moving.

Have you ever watched a car crash in slow motion?

It’s breath taking.

 

Garden Fingers

We have hereditary green thumbs on my father’s side of the family.

My grandmother bloomed roses straight from her finger tips.

My father nurtured his vegetables with gloved hands and a wooden stool.

Even my mother’s side of the family knew something of agriculture.

Aunt Terri was the color of leather from her days in the sun.

My grandfather’s onions sprung up every year, even after he was gone.

My horticulturist brothers have seemed to carry on the tradition.

Succulents, Tomatoes, Apple Trees, and Herbs.

 

But not my mother.

No, my mother has a black thumb and a forgetful mind.

She was much better at growing children.

 

And as I try to grow these greens as well,

I feel like I’m trying to prove that I belong in this family.

My hands covered in dirt from the Earth where I buried another failure.

It’s as if I don’t deserve even hose water to wash clean.

So I keep my hands dirty to disguise these black thumbs of mine.

And I think,

Maybe I would be better off growing children.

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