Small leaves whorled pale green on succulent
stems. The juices of your tender flesh
run on my tongue.
Rabbits, I see where your teeth have cut
an early breakfast.
Beware! I compete with you. I reject the sumpermarket's
watery romaine and timid spinach for the wild
tang of chickweed and dock.
Plae mustard petals slide hot on my palate. Nibbles
of fennel fronds rise fragrant through my nostrils.
Deer, you cannot reserve the wild lettuce for your own.
The gentle hairs of its spine will prickle my mouth, too.
From the stream I pluck watercress to pile dark and peppery
in my salad. I revert
to ancient ways.
Not for me the imprisoning cycle of sow, tend, reap. I wander
mountain trails, taking what the rains bring.
Mallow and milk thistle steam in my pot. The strength
of wild green things flows through me.
My feet dance on the paths and my fingers tingle
at the touch of the new leaves.
Marian Peck
