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.