Saturday July 30th, 2016

The exercise:

Write a four line poem about: uncertainty.

Came home from a very hot market with only ten pounds of nectarines, four peaches, and about twenty pounds of a new variety of nectarines (we only brought about forty pounds to begin with). The new ones aren't as nice looking and were not ripe enough to eat, so I'm not surprised that they had trouble competing with our main variety.

Anyway. Point is: that was another good market.

Adam and Becky are away next weekend and it's also the Peach Fest Parade on Saturday, which means unloading your vehicle, parking elsewhere, and then after closing going to get your vehicle and packing up again. So, since I don't want to deal with that on my own, I'll be skipping it as well.

The following week... well, the remainder of the season is likely full of markets that won't be worth splitting three ways. So, at most, we'll be alternating weekends with Adam and Becky. At least... I could be done with farmer markets for the year. We shall see.


Is this the end?
How will I know?
Will someone come
To tell me to go?


Greg said...

That sounds like a good market again. And potentially not having to go to another market (at least by yourself) also sounds quite positive. I'm sure you'll end up at the Peach Pride anyway as a family day out, but that's better than being there as a vendor!
I have most of the verb forms of Maltese in my head now, and I'm feeling a little dazed. This will likely last a few days while they settle down and start competing with Italian verb forms for ease of access, and then it should just be a case of building vocabulary and practising. Overall I'm pleased: I should have something to show soon for the last four weeks of work!
Well, your poem definitely captures the essence of uncertainty, so much so that it even seems a little uncertain if it's really supposed to be here or not! Nice work :)

I asked you if you loved me
And you said that you weren't sure.
I told you that I loved you
And you walked right out the door.

Marc said...

Greg - well, we were considering going to the parade, but it ended up being too much to deal with, if I recall correctly.

I hope your Maltese has come along nicely in the fifty years since you wrote this. Or month, or however long it has been.

Ouch. Not sure there's much else to say about your poem. Just... ouch.