Farmer’s Market

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It is dark, impending thunder, high winds;
Slate grey caution in the wall of clouds
In the imminent distance, momentary
Hesitation to head downtown away from
The promised safety of home, to the streets
Where farmer’s, bakers, florists, artisans
All specifically entwined, connected to
The wares that lay on or under tables, maybe
Being stored protectively on the organic seats of
Old Toyotas, beds of big American made Fords, Chevys
The lovingly cared for old Dodge owned by
My first stop, a gentle well worn guy who
Does not allow me to place into my bag uncovered
What he acknowledges are small strawberries
But he adamantly asserts are the sweetest
You will ever enjoy, as are his bulbous green onions,
Asparagus proudly standing in formation
For free he provides the knowledge of his years
About each purchase I make, as he speaks I hug
The memory of the uncle who similar in looks; manner
Called me Lester, to make me one of the guys; included
Like his wife who welcomed all with time, cookies
Pleasure always in shared conversation, her patch
Of strawberries and asparagus hidden down the hill
From the lines of perfectly hung laundry gently
Acknowledging the breeze and ease of hanging out
He is gone now, and what she was is too, but I
Visit them with my heart every Saturday morning
Stormy, rainy, sultry, or cool at the pool of hosts,
And hostesses of my local Farmer’s Market

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One thought on “Farmer’s Market

  1. Really sweet – brought back a lot of memories. An utterly charming capture. Those venders at the local farmer’s market really do seem like the Saturday morning hosts and hostesses. Love the pics.

    Like

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