Peeled Carrots

It’s been raining most of the day – a thoughtful, contemplative rain

if I can ascribe water that kind of quality.

It drips from the clouds to the leaves, to the gaps

between the bricks on the patio

trickling down the face of the For Sale sign framed in dark green.

It makes me realize I am hungry:

The groceries in my fridge are slowly reaching decay.

I find my cutting board and begin peeling the withered looking carrots from the drawer:

Taken from the ground, to a truck, to a Farmer’s Market, to a bamboo board.

The rain drips solemnly off the eaves of the roof

framing my kitchen window- my tiny kitchen

that reminds my Father of his days in the Navy.

Long, curling strips cover the cutting board, scuffed on one side,

bright orange on the other.

I lean against the oven and think of His travels, picturing him rising for the midnight

watch, while my Mother watched for him from home.

I cut the peeled carrots in half, in half again, and then slide the knife to the core

making sticks that vary in shape and size. Enough sticks to place in a ziplock bag

enough sticks to crunch tomorrow in the hours between breakfast and lunch.

The rain has filled up the patio, rising to cover my front porch

sloshing over the kitchen window that now looks like a port-hole.

There have been no offers, no buyers,

only the birds notice the sign – perching there for a moment

before fleeing under thicker branches.


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