The onions were crisp and sugar funked. The pumpkins plump
and less ordinary than the okra with the palsy.
The sweet peas were lumps of gnocchi tucked into emeralds
as ascendent as a vine of pregnant Ivy.
Coin purse puce where the rain slapped
and the fog of our tundra dropped anchor
where our meadows
were bent.

But what Vera wants to know
Is Why?

And what Heaven wants to know
Is Why Not?