We were regulars,

before marketing

at a farm was so

very all in vogue.

I remember the

dust stirred up

by cars parking,

my little girl nose,

taking particles in.

Packing crates

showcasing

the comeliness

of apples, and, always,

this lady, maybe eighty,

in a flowered housedress,

who made me wonder,

if there were people who

understood everything,

calling everyone darlin’.

Dad thumped watermelons

like it was a science,

I took pinches at peaches

because it seemed the thing to do,

and over time, through

an abundance of

irrational, still came

miracles like late plums,

and tomatoes on the vine

in August, asking whether

there is anything

more consistently

magnificent than the

sweet smell of summer,

like butter left out,

slowly softening

at its own pace.