Peter Piper picked a peck or two here, I’ll tell you.
Peppers aplenty, fresh from the field,
peek from boxes and baskets, piled high,
their firm flesh luring us to linger above the display.
Our teeth tingle at the thought of their crunch.
The buds on our tongues stand ready
for the first wash of their juicy sweetness.
And so we stand there at the edge of dusty country road,
the sunshine bathing our shoulders,
the piquant aromas of onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, garlic,
melting beneath this one peppery smell.
The farm wife bags our bounty with a smile
and carefully counts out our change, wishing us a good day.
With a heap of bags strewn across the car’s back seat,
we drive off, breathing the fragrance of heaven.