You will not find the best from above.
Kneel in the bread-colored dirt.
Bow down among the weeds.
Draw your face near to the earth.
Lift their green hands, from beneath,
where they hold their offerings.
Let the smell enter you.
Let the wind lay its hand on your face.
Let the sun wrap its arms around your back.
Earth has no need to give you
what is not yet ripe, or already past.
Look for the pure red heart;
feel the gentle firmness.
You know you touch the light
of the first day of creation
slowly deepening in each little red sun.
Hear the soft “yes” as the stem snaps.
Like a child the fruit rolls into your hand.
This moment is really no different from all others.
They come to you one by one.
Imagine who might give such a gift.
In the silence of your own ripeness,
venerate the gifts on the altar of the afternoon,
genuflect with wine-red hands,
and receive your morsel.