You darken as my knife slices
blushing at what you become.
I save your thick leaves
and purple skin
to feed the cows.
A peasant guest at any meal
you agree to hide in fragrant stew
or gleam nakedly
in butter and chives.
Though your seeds are tiny
you grow with fierce will
grateful for poor soil and dry days,
heave up from the ground
under sheltering stalks
to sweeten with the frost.
Tonight we take you into our bodies
as if we do you a favor—
letting your molecules
become a higher being,
one that knows music and art.
But you share with us
what makes you a rutabaga.
Through you we eat sunlight,
taste the soil’s clamoring mysteries,
gain your seed’s perfect might.
Posted by kind permission of the poet, Laura Grace Weldon.
We could point our attention anywhere – summer leaning into its most ambitious month, the…
I will praise my failures. I will praise What I have not accomplished and do…
—misheard line from a poem by Fernando Pessoa Be a blue whale with a heart…
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