We are on vacation at the moment, taking the last two weeks of December off, and there are no farmer's markets those weeks. We will resume delivering on January 6, and the farmers market will move to the Senior Center on January 7.
Our poem of the week:
A spirit that is limited, small as "I imagine," one that flutters on
the shoulder between concrete and abstract, a bird's call, not its
song, in the distance. It is the fragrance of your voice or the colors
in what you say, the floral prints, not the solids. Palms laid out like
tables spread, mangos with salt, fried potatoes. It is the feeling you
perhaps learned as a child leading your mute twin by the hand,
pointing out the yellow-headed blackbirds. Delight you must
have learned in order to speak for him. Sweet Heart. Red Clover.
Cardinals strung along the fence like paper lanterns. We want to
go out in the world no matter what. We want to come back home
with plans to plant things. Salutations, oh pigeon! And fireworks
for graduation! Pine and fir so we can tell the difference between
them. The mind thinks of all the boughs and stars it wants to give,
unaware of all that's lost at the periphery. Dear Epicurean. Dear
Carnation. Dear Frivolously Blue.
- Melissa Kwasny