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| Photography by Anna Harrison |
Stop.
Stand before the worn, blue cloud car,
and browse this fresh fruit rainbow.
Palm a sampling of nature’s orbs and press it to your nose.
Smell the vineyard’s simple offering of flesh and sugar juice.
Concentrate.
You have to ignore the thin streak of cheap, stale tobacco wafting in a crawl across the hood from the old woman’s shriveled lips sipping noisily at the butt of what must be the most ancient still-intact cigarette.
Don’t wonder where her home is or whether she kept warm last
night.
And please, think of something other than how she hunches and
squints, examining a past of crossroads that brought her to this place.
Just pay her already. Bite deep into your purchase and walk far, far away from the woman who sells the fruit when it snows.
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