The day begins with rain. The sky breathes in and out and in. We walk toward the scent of roots and earth. Notice the radishes and it is too late for kale now but that broccoli is something to write poems about. Basil. Beans. When you pop perfectly-circled cherry tomato into mouth, there is a pop. You purchase a small basket of multi-colored tomatoes from a hippie with a tattoo of words from her grandmother. A loaf of bread for later. Some peaches. How beautiful is this. How much will this day cost and what about that time we cried on half of a hill on a Sunday because all of it was ending. But the vegetables never abandon us. We can always rely on the growing pattern of farmers and seedlings to last past love.