my uncle grabbed a bag
of fiddleheads,
tender beginnings,
at the farmer’s market,
said he was going
to fry them
with honey, pink-
peppercorn, and salt.
the farmers bring dirt
to Market Street,
spread it over
the concrete, like
a memory. I can smell
the black coffee,
watered earth.
sunlight seeps
around the corner,
shining off the tents like
they’re the towers
of camelot. I remember
when the vendors
would hand me
a little taste of whatever
they’d brought
to the city, plant
a seed in my belly,
watch me smile
as it began to sprout.
of fiddleheads,
tender beginnings,
at the farmer’s market,
said he was going
to fry them
with honey, pink-
peppercorn, and salt.
the farmers bring dirt
to Market Street,
spread it over
the concrete, like
a memory. I can smell
the black coffee,
watered earth.
sunlight seeps
around the corner,
shining off the tents like
they’re the towers
of camelot. I remember
when the vendors
would hand me
a little taste of whatever
they’d brought
to the city, plant
a seed in my belly,
watch me smile
as it began to sprout.
Event Date:
Wednesday, May 11, 2022
- Yellow Sweater's blog
- Sprout
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thegreenone
May 19, 2022
ahh man i just miss getting all the homemade cookies and pastries on my school trips to the farmer's market
no way a male poet?! yes way