The Slow Harvest

Each week,

I choose to eat from the hands I know—

farmers who greet me by name,

whose soil still clings to roots,

whose stories rest in every leaf I carry home.

My basket becomes a ritual of devotion,

not a grand gesture, but in the quiet kind;

a carrot, cherry tomato, a broccoli, kale:

the slow harvest of a season

tucked gently into my arms.

I take my time.

I ask how the carrots are doing this week,

forget what I came for—then find something more.

To say hello, to notice, to thank;

to let each vegetable quietly restore

what it means to care, and to love even more.