Monday, April 18, 2011

Bushels

Slumbering in the garden
like misplaced torpedoes,
we’re startled each morning
by how much you have grown.

Your skin is the color of spring leaves
just after dusk, but cut,
your pale flesh glows with moonlight,
tastes like mint would
if it wasn’t mint.

Gathered in bushels,
my mother-in-law, blessing
you with holy vinegar and sugar
and proud garlic,
weds you and the summer,
then hides you in the cellar

until those short winter days
when we need a reminder
of melted August afternoons
when we longed for ice.




R.

No comments:

Post a Comment