Contemplation of a spinach salad,
an ancient lineage stored in dark greens,
anointed with oil,
groves on stone terraces,
shallow roots in rocky soil,
the good pressed out of the bitter.
Toss in the Greek Feta,
milk of goat or sheep,
the clank of hooves
along the narrow trail of Perseus,
In his bloody sack, the head of Medusa.
On the road to redemption,
he earned his deliverance.
Mix in almonds,
the seed of a tree native to Persia,
emeralds, sapphires, rubies,
the diamond words of Hafiz,
thirteenth century dervishes
that dance their way to the divine.
And passed down from the cheat of a white man’s hand
Cranberries which once grew wild
from indigenous ground.
Mix the ingredients together
with the seeds of sunflowers,
from fields of light that grow almost everywhere.
This is my lunch, now part of me.
All at midday in October when there is plague
that has come to be known as Covid,
a crazy man election, that stills haunts the landscape,
and me who eats light
given freely from the face of blooms
that reach sunward.