Slivers of wild carrot
fall away from the knife in rounds,
fat coins gleaming dully in the kitchen light.
A sweet, vegetal scent wafts from the cut flesh
sparking thoughts of the world outside—
fecund spring soil and nascent buds unfolding
in geometric whorls—sights I have yet to see,
sequestered in this season of pandemic.
But for now it is enough
to be chopping these carrots,
inhaling the dampness of distant earth where,
though I can't see them, I can still wonder
at taproots snaking beneath the loam,
cells swelling to golden spears, a lacework
of emerald leaves unfurling overground,
gathering sunlight for the shade-bound
to savor with their morning meal.