This poem was composed on a cold January morning, months after the warm, bright afternoon when we visited the farmer's market in Winchester. As I remembered that day, the colors, light, and smells came back vividly into the dimness of my winter room and made themselves into the beginnings of this poem.
Hot autumn sun
glares from the parking lot,
through the open doorway,
glows inward,
catching curves of color,
arresting mounds of cauliflower
magnificent in violet, cream, and orange;
echoes in a hundred jars of gleaming glass -
of honey, sauce, and jellies,
bearing promises of flavor
surprising and untasted.
The apples, less reserved,
cast their sweet russet spell
of fragrance noseward
with abandon that belies
their tidy mounds of crimson, green,
and butter-yellow, piled in crates,
labeled with names and prices,
bags provided. One may buy these,
but their free intoxicating scent
is one of autumn's gifts - do not forget this.
And here's the joy of cranny crammed full stores -
sleek vacuumed packs of salt pork and pink ham,
jars of mysterious, eccentric blended tea,
great mounds of onions, satin and rotund,
bunched flowers, languishing in loveliness,
and sweet potatoes, stacked up skyward
torpedo roots washed of the soil they conquered,
the soil, so low and brown,
from which comes all the colors of the market -
God bless the soil!
- AFB, 1-16-24
