Saturday Market on a Cold Memorable Day
by Kristina WoodhillTasted, tested, tallied
dried pears, tooth-pick poked,
dried plums, divine.
Lemonade guys,
come on, it's cold,
cold, cold outside,
memorial weekend
on the midcity
market streets;
Saturday stocked,
Sunday will have to
fill its own pews.
The man on the corner
still holds the Black Book
firmly,
quoting,
standing
on a little box -
does “up” above us in inches
elevate his words by blocks?
Steve, your native
plants rise up!
Sturdy stems
striving, no threats
needed, it's thyme
for my annual rosemary,
beads of oil rub
me the right way,
clearing sinus
passages for curry leaves'
temptation, but I'm leaning
toward India tea,
if you please,
Darjeeling, I do not
find you here, love,
for this is Idaho
where the elk and
buffalo roam,
corralled and lovingly
steaked out
on more than a few
bar-be-ques,
and the local honey mustard
bees play
and play
all day
05/28/2011
