Family visiting recently
dubbed the amazing growth
in the high tunnel
“Jurassic Garden.”
Swiss chard grew to five feet,
its leaves the size of a bed pillow,
its trunk three-inches thick.
Ann let it grow that big
because we fed the greens
to the rabbits, guineas and chickens.
She has pulled up the chard now
and fed the last of it to those who dine
in the barn.
Meanwhile,
squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers,
eggplant, herbs
have taken off
under the protection of the spring winds,
the scorching sun
and with the steady dripping of
captured rain water.
The tender, flavorful vegetables
are now nurturing
those of us who dine
at a table.

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With a crunch and a splash,
we bite into thin-walled
bell peppers.
We pop tomatoes
as soon as we pick them—
and in an instant
the long-awaited,
quintessential taste
of summer
overtakes us.
The wind carries the sublime fragrance
of basil
and, picked and chopped,
we shower it on
squash, eggplant, potatoes
for roasting.
There is a merging,
a coming together—
vegetable and human—
that is,
simply,
exquisite.