At a table in the open air market,
the farmer asks us to guess which
colored eggs come from which chickens—
off-white, copper brown, green
and blue. The arugula fronds are not
wilting yet in the heat. Tomato clusters
boast their firm, ruddy shine. I read
somewhere about the earlobes,
and how their color matches that of the orbs
the farmer's wife collects in baskets
from the coop. How amazing it is when signs
tell the truth though more often now,
they could be duplicitous; when a dream
of combing bees out of your hair
turns into pollen-dusted stigmata on your
palms, but when you open them, they
start singing a song you can understand.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
