Craig W. Steele

I pluck leaves, young and tender, from
the garden napping in my yard,
fresh harvest greens, the tried and true,
choice mustard, collard, turnip, too,
expand my green horizons while
I reap from beet and rainbow chard,
immerse them in a waterfall
to appetize the summer wilt,
ensure each foil is pure and crisp.
I drain them well and dry them all,
then intermix them in a pile,
like turgid scraps of shredded quilt,
to drizzle on some Virgin oil
and set the steamer’s heat to roil.
Much later, as I graze in bliss,
I’m thankful that the greens aren’t blue.