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Mid-July, and the beets are ready
Their green tops waving to us
From the garden,
Calling us to sink our fingers
into the warm earth,
grasp the dark red globes,
Shake the sandy loam free,
revealing coarse jewels,
their true beauty known only
to those who know.

In the kitchen, a knife awaits,
Pot of boiling water
A blue bowl.
Crusty, lined skin slides off
Under our fingertips
As we rinse and rub,
Rough turning to smooth
To slippery,
Almost too beautiful
to eat.