At the Farmers Market
The Farmer
My wares are spread
across the checkered cloth.
This somber young man weighs
each bright tomato in his hand
like a storm-brought shell,
A rare coin or a precious stone.
I am happy to wrap his two
chosen tomatoes, a bunch
of carrots, one red pepper
and my last green onions for the day.
I have prayed and worked, St. Benedict,
without disappointment.
You have blessed my fields
which will overflow tonight
onto this man’s dinner table.
When I walk my land, I see
all the world’s hopes unfurl
In each well-ordered row.
The Beekeeper
Each small plastic bear
of honey shines
with its own light
on my stall shelves
between the soap-maker
and the Amish family.
It is a miracle every day
when the bees fly back
to my hives. St. Valentine,
you are the patron
of all lovers
and all beekeepers.
Each day, I watch my bees
and can only marvel
at their devotion,
loyalty, the love
fulfilled in the fleeting kiss
within each flower,
the sweet nectar set aside
like a golden blessing for all.
The Flower Seller
St. Dorothea brought
flowers to her captors
before they martyred her.
My faith is not
that strong, but I still love
each of my bouquets, each basket
of gathered wildflowers
and carefully gardened blooms.
Take this brace of lavender roses
as proof that we do not
need to die
to see heaven’s glory.
This single bud, its curved petals
can open it all for you.