I left her last night after the sun went down – and overnight she has grown, drinking in the water from my soaker hose. She is crispy and succulent in the morning, the dew her only dressing. Her folates in full power, untouched by the skillets heat or the sun’s rays.
Other lovers provide a breath of air. She makes oxygen. Other lovers try to lower their carbon footprint. She opens her stomata at night and sequesters carbon dioxide. She takes those carbons and knits together molecules that course through my veins like a busload of Big Ten Cheerleaders announcing a victory. A blowout. Champions! Powerful beyond measure.
Some lovers get cold feet. When the frost touches Kale, she gets sweeter, her sugar concentrated. She has been known to last all winter long, perpetual satiation. Perennial as annual as mineral and vegetable. Baby, do you like to eat seasonal? She is almost always ready for a few leaves to be plucked.
Everyone wants to be with her these days. And yet when it seems she has found the perfect partner, another beckons. Sweet. Savory. Spicy. I know I will never own her. No one will.