Picking Carrots

It’s March 18th and despite the ground
freeze last Saturday, our carrots crave
evaluation — the scent of ripeness
hovers over the bed of orange, red
and purple heads poking up through
a roof of crushed pine bark.

The secrets of root vegetables arouse me.

Always a hidden story and disputed
recitation.

Seeds sown last October, but winter’s
wardrobe was unhemmed, cool, and bright
enough to sugar these painted vegetal fingers.

Now feathery leaves sew the spring breeze,
their scent a lurid promise. I pull one from
the largest bunch, parting a wave of soil — sand
grains dripping off the root. It is straight,
thick and half a foot long — a clandestine
happiness, like the first kiss of a new lover.

Moving through the bed, I hope for sticks
of vegetal candy, not crooked old roots —
fibrous and bitter as a sixty-year-old
bachelor.

Moving to the next patch, I wait for
the touch of the earth’s second secret.

Gary D. Grossman

Last Stanza Poetry Review #10, 2022