Dirty leaves in bunches for sale.

Mismatched buckets of wildflowers, earth under fingernails and open hands inviting one to taste.  People and children alive and shopping free of metal cages and broken wheels, free of screaming and grabbing at boxes of sugar adorned with pictures of fictional beings so many fictional beings line the polytheistic aisle of carbohydrates in that other place.

At the farmer’s market I shop only by texture and color, scent and taste, finding truth in wrinkles and grime.