To stand over the sink scrubbing
scab from lopsided potatoes;
paring thick hide off radishes picked too late;
snapping bean tips; rinsing,
chopping, bagging beet greens.
I’ve enough zucchini here to bake
one hundred loaves of bread. I slice
crookneck squash for compost, wish
for chickens to feed the seedy yellow pulp to.
"Waste not, want not" my mother said.
So, I spray water into the sink.
A golden squash blossom sticks
from the snarls of my hair.
Tomato sauce bubbles on the stove.
Smell of basil fills the kitchen, and I watch
mud eddy slowly, then disappear
down the drain. Next August
I will travel.

This poem first appeared in the 2009 Wisconsin Fellowship of Poet's Calendar.
Used with the author's permission.