The Food I Do Not Grow

A sourdough loaf still

warm from the oven

is worth its weight in

tomatoes.

A jar of garnet colored

cordial nets a sack of

scarlet radishes and a

brace of garlic.

A bet won

paid in kale

and kohlrabi.

Hugs and eggplants

are exchanged.

I love my neighbors’

gardens, for my own

is a tangle of wildflowers

and wingéd creatures,

but naught for

me to eat.

But between the two

I am well fed indeed,

body    and    soul.