I finally find time
To visit my small city's
Community Farmer's Market.
Every Sunday, from June through October,
At 8 AM in the parking lot
Across from the Amtrak station,
The stalls open.
The Northern Arizona mountain air opens my eyes.
I admire glistening bunches of Swiss chard and Lacinato kale,
And overflowing baskets of purplish heirloom tomatoes
And grass-green sugar snap peas.
The jostled pea pods squeak as I fill a plastic bag.
Clear glass jelly jars of water, filled with aromatic stalks of
Cilantro, basil, oregano and spearmint,
Catch the sunlight and sprinkle prismatic colors
Over stacked jars of homemade black currant jam.
At one crowded stall, a teenaged girl in a straw hat
Slices a fresh, raw turnip.
"Try some turnip," she insists, offering a snow white slice
On the end of a toothpick.
I shrug. Turnip is turnip.
The crisp, wet slice snaps in two in my mouth,
Releasing gleeful layers of living flavor.
So that's what turnip tastes like.