The nubbed leaves
in a tease of green, thinning
down to the membrane:
the quick, purpled,
beginnings of the male.
Then the slow hairs of the heart:
the choke that guards its trophy,
its vegetable goblet.
The meat of it lies, displayed,
up-ended, al dente,
the stub-root aching in its oil.
With Robin's poem in mind, I am off to the farmer's market in Bath to get some seasonal treats, then I shall be back to cook dinner tonight. I will post my new recipe with my new seasonal food! I hope the poem inspires you to cook with new ingredients and discover new ideas on your poetry.