It’s too bad Ruth closed her fruit stand. She’d sell fresh produce from the county On a little piece of land she owned. Ruth had an earth grain to her skin Like bushels of greens, baskets of pears. She loved to smile and talk, Her heart as pure as sunlight on soil. She had the wisdom of nature And grit of work to her banter. Now, when I drive past the stand, It just looks abandoned, like Ruth Had wandered into the wilderness, And the blades of a standing fan She left behind, turn without power, Turn with the seasons, and haven’t stopped.