The exercise:
Write a four line poem about something (or someone?) that is: off-limits.
Good day at the market. We sold out of the last 160 pounds of cherries we were able to salvage from the rain, as well as the shelling peas, raspberries, cabbage (all two heads of it), Moroccan mint and peppermint plants, and finally sold the last of the cinnamon basil plants that we had.
I even sold five (I think - I'm getting quite terrible at keeping track) of my greeting cards.
The last hour and a quarter before closing was pretty quiet, which was kind of nice. As long as I don't think about how much more we could have sold if we'd had additional cherries and raspberries and shelling peas...
Anyway. It was another good market.
Mine:
Unless, my dear child,
You wish for me to slaughter
Your parents and pets,
Keep your hands off my daughter.
2 comments:
It sounds like you were so successful you're going to have trouble finding things to sell next week! I suppose that regret of knowing you could have sold more is what drives expansion though, and you have to balance it against the amount of effort it takes to grow that much produce.
Well done on selling the greetings cards too, it sounds like they're taking off nicely!
Heh, I like the intense, overbearing parent you've created in just four lines!
Off-limits
The store is always off-limits
Except to the cook and her men
'Cos that's where they eat the bacon
While we're having porridge again.
Greg - well then it's a good thing we're not attending next weekend's market :P
Kat's graduation ceremony for the online counseling course she just finished is next weekend in Vancouver, so we're taking a couple days away from the garden to attend that.
Oh dear. Sounds to me the withholding of bacon is grounds for mutiny.
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