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      December 21, 2008Tom BoswellHarvesting the Carrots

      Ten years later, when it was finally over
      she confessed she had fallen in love
      with me that late autumn afternoon
      while I squatted, my back to her,
      harvesting the carrots.
      My eyes were fixed on the carrot tops, ferny green
      filigree promising thick scarlet roots
      burrowed in the soil, so I failed to notice
      if she changed that moment—her face,
      her eyes, the way she walked—
      When this thing she later called love swept
      over her. I do remember that the corn
      was behind us, and how she turned then
      to photograph it as I tore out carrots
      and tossed them in a willow basket.
      I never understood what she saw in this garden
      she hadn’t worked, or in the ravaged corn
      she’d make into a photo to hang on a gallery
      wall, or how these things she hardly knew
      could stir such deep emotions, but
      See something to satisfy you, so long as you
      were not hungry for corn. There was mullein,
      goldenrod and bergamot still in bloom,
      and the wild carrot, Queen Anne’s Lace,
      hang any which way and still
      See something to satisfy you, so long as you
      were not hungry for corn. There was mullein,
      goldenrod and bergamot still in bloom,
      and the wild carrot, Queen Anne’s Lace,
      which she claimed to love as well.
      I teased her, called it a wanton weed, useless
      renegade from overseas, but showed her,
      as if it was a secret shared by just us two,
      the solitary purple blossom shuddering
      like a heart at the center of each bouquet.
      Gather enough of these over a summer, I said,
      and you can dye something—a skirt or shirt
      perhaps—a dark hue like the stain
      of memory, a thing of beauty and utility.
      At least until the color fades.

      from #29 - Summer 2008