I will buy peaches

[Showers Plaza Farmers' Market - earlier today in Bloomington - inspired this unfinished piece.]

A half-dozen earocorn on my hip,
wild-haired children of sun and rain and earth.
I buy tomatoes just so I can hold them,
those secret-shrouding ruby jewels, one per palm.

I move through the crowd
like the wide-eyed babies in strollers (toes fat and umbrellaed
like the blackberries) and their older peach-fuzzed siblings
who marvel at guitar songs
and men in funny hats.

Something aches to start speaking to my brownpaper wrapped cornbaby,
to point out the faces in the zenias
and the flowers in the people.
Tell her how all the red
and yellow and brown and green
isn't by chance. Look at the intent
spoken to the heart of the gladiola,
enough for future generations. See,
carrots and potatoes are cousins
in their love of dirt, but their unique strivings for life
are both needed gifts to our bodies. Believe Someone
put this here for you.

But I am happy to breathe in
summer through the skin
of an imperfect peach.
A sacrifice of its own right,
calling up the child I was
and giving life to the one I will carry.

[I though about titling this entry - and this poem - "When I am pregnant, I will buy peaches." I didn't want the p-word to flip my mom out, she should know by now what I mean. Comments? Other title options hidden in there? How should "umbrella" be treated if I want and -ed at the end? I know my writing hasn't been real consistent. Thank you for visiting anyway! (Even today I'm mainly writing because I should be doing something else.)]