the farmers’ market is an act of faith,
the sky starting to smell like snow . . .
we are all dressed like vegetables
are the last things on our minds, yet
we are as determined as the kale to
make the most of this descending season.
one friend finds me in the sweet potatoes
and we swap stories for sustenance;
he talks of reading with his daughter
great stories of friends and loyalty and
I think of my friends: tenacious as turnips,
hardy as collards, and true as beets.
Peace,
Milton
