I’m willing to eat tulips in winter before they’re even sure of themselves,
just a good idea waiting to burst forth on the plate. A little maple honey
really sets off the colors under the tongue.
I’m willing to eat clear blue sky, bright sun white buffalo with roosters
on the side, clouds squeezing rain, sponge cake whirlwinds with
lightning bolts, perhaps even a little snow. Sugar of course.
I’m willing to eat self-doubt, frenetic historic tales whispered into
rambunctious sleep, the captain’s first mate, a curry dish, steaming
bowls of salted misconceptions. Buttered words for dessert.
I’m willing to eat a country mile, where the river elbows close.
Maybe it never happened the way I thought but a windy feast
is as good as a fox in the chicken coop. Licking lips.
I’m willing to eat the moon. Would you like a slice?
Can you guess the poem prompt? Write a poem that begins with the line,
“I’m willing to eat…”.
- Too ripe a pairing, photo to poem, to resist reposting here. No children on that bus these days, just vegetables from a local grower to the Saturday Farmers Market in town. Go say hello if you’re in this part of the Edmonds Washington world. Say you saw them here.