There's a salad in my kitchen,
daisy greens
and black-eyed Susan
stems and leaves,
looking as delicious
as any tossed for a dinner, while
the carrot tops are as beautiful
as the Queen Anne's Lace,
wild or tamed for the cooking pot,
and the snap of dahlia stems in hand
is as dripping-juice-fresh to the ear
as any hothouse asparagus
or pricey snow peas.
I peer into the artichoke,
looking for a center
sweet and fragrant as the
mystic middle of peony or rose,
thinking that all of this,
whether broccoli
or bud of some exotic flower,
feeds the same appetite,
sings the same song.
