It was my first carrot school.
The one where you learn the math of art
and the art of math.
Harvested corn for five pregnant cows
And turnips happily round-cheeked,
kale stubbornly fighting stretchy rubber bands,
Rooster crowed every morning as I pulled up
And birds announced the coming of rain
before Carolyn brought me her yellow raincoat.
Baby soft kohlrabi in purple dresses
And lettuce, a shameless show off, in Las Vegas neon
Humble carrots embraced in love –
For fifty hungry families.
Like carrots squeezed closer
by clay hard soil
then loosened, exposed, and chopped off
learning it is either sizzling in butter
Or wilting forever, but no matter
It is life giving.
So we lingered at the last harvesting.
We lingered at the last farmers market,
Fed hungry eyes with the colors undiscovered
Very last time. Till next May. Hugs exchanged.
Young man thanked for his daily food.
And I walked past the US Bank, where
on a bench sits a Man, a Lady and a Dog
They sit every day on their blanket
Like a picture permanently painted
I handed her an apple, and she smiled:
“Oh, breakfast! I don’t like cooking breakfast
so this is perfect!”
And I went home, to chop celeriac for soup
And read some of The Dirty Life
Where the author writes,
“The difference between an amateur and a pro
is that the pro does not have
an emotional reaction to losing anymore.
It is just the other side of winning.”
I went home, to linger for a while
with that knowing of the other side of winning
packed in one pocket,
the smile of the Lady packed in another
and my most valuable diploma,
carrot school diploma, neatly sitting
in the bright red suitcase.