Roadside Market

Roadside Market

From ploughed fields,

barren in winter, yet

so plentiful come summer,

the earth-magic of seed-to-soil,

is this clear plastic bag.

We buy it from the elderly lady

at the roadside stand,

it's fraying sign so worn

it flows between the wind

like a silk flag, Roadside Market.

It's crooked letters wave down

passing cars with the promise of a

'fresh and hand-picked harvest.'

From home-weaved baskets.

from plough-hand and back-yard

garden, comes the offering

of succulent fruit,  things

made fine of soil and vine.

We pick and peel, prod and devour

from seed to peeling, stem to core,

from crock-pots-full to baking-sheets,

crowded dinner table to front porch swing,

nectar dripping down our chins.

This is how you consume Summer,

all sticky-fingered and belly-full.

The absolute embodiment of a moment,

tasting sunshine and savoring senses

as if one day we won't die,

as if the end doesn't loom, way over

there behind a hilltop somewhere,

in the far distance, patient and waiting.

There is only now and now and now,

daylight and joyous sunrise,

butterflies and birds dancing

from blossom to yielding blossom,

impossibly fruitful blossom yielding manna

and so we eat and drink and gather,

satiated of the season, sweetened of earth's elixir.

©Stacy Stevens