First Visit to Farmer's Market

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.

© Judith C Evans 2011

Written for Thursday Think Tank #60 at Poets United. This week's prompt is Market Days. Join us!

July 27

Computer-red eyes gaze gleefully at the calendar: four more small stones after tonight!!

Salsa and Chips for $1.75

I had never eaten there before.
It was the time of the afternoon
When I habitually fear I will die
          without having mattered.
It was at the moment when
The crunchy salt and the mango and pineapple
          met on my tongue
That I noticed the brilliant blue textures
Of the hand-painted walls
And really heard Lynyrd Skynyrd pumping from
          the speakers on the ceiling,
And remembered that I love long skirts like
          the purple gauzy one in the
          shop window across the
          Arizona sun-baked plaza.

© Judith C Evans 2008

[Written just after a period of homelessness while I lived in Flagstaff, Arizona.]

Submitted to Poetry Pantry #50 at Poets United.

A Few Months Later in Arizona

Only You could persuade me
That this rock-hard, scrubby, suncracked expanse
Is in truth a cool drink of water
          uniquely suited to my
          peculiar thirst.

Only You could perceive
That this relentless solitude, these averted eyes,
          this heartbreaking hunger
Would prove to be ideal suitors
          to my forsaken muse
          and my neglected pen.

How else can I thank You
          but to embark upon this stroll, arm-in-arm, with death?
I live to live, but today, my head rests against death's shoulder.
For only this high desert, whose thirsty afternoons
          and subzero nights
          and sudden lightning
          and bruising hail
          can sicken me with fear,
Can shelter my anonymity,
Provide a haven for my most sacred dreams,
And listen with me in reverent attention
          to Your private hymns.

Submitted to Thursday Poets Rally #43

Friends unseen yet kind 

Say  "there's always time to write" --

Start here -- don't look back.

Many thanks for this award. See all the winners at Promising Poets' Poetry Cafe. I nominate Becky -- be sure to read her work!