PREDICATION

I've carroted all my life. Had to. Especially in this town. So clicky and clacky. You show 'em just enough ... and no more. Can never be too careful who you're planted next to.

Like Rutabaga. She's all shiny and pleasant, saying you look nifty and frilly. Then she'll turn around and turnip ya, telling the others you're nothing, no substance, not worth dirt. I don't need a dressing-down like that.

And Kohlrabi. He's all over the place. Always going on about the rich hefty stews and soups he makes. But he'll cabbage it all up and only do it in season. Only for the beautiful, the rich, the ones with the dough.

Sometimes I can't stand it here, so I carrot. It's the easiest way. But a few rows back, I met my rootmate. What a sweet species he was. We started inching towards each other and I was hooked. He cuked me like I never been cuked before, sweet seeds spilling all over the place. When we made salad, it was a beautiful thing.

And then along comes Jalapena. All hot and spicy, looking to be cuked by anyone who'll cuke her. How'm I supposed to stem up next to that?

So I inched my way back toward the sun, the sweet rays, soaking up the good stuff. But I was limped out. I know, there's more to life than making salad, and 'tis better to have cuked and been jalapenaed than to have never cuked at all, but I was fadin'. Wilted, scraggly.

Then I got a good pruning and the rains came, soothing and warm. Reminded me what it's all about. Oh, I get tendriled now and again, seeds and pollen comin' my way. But they're just weeds and I root 'em out. Gotta stand my ground.