Brussels Sprouts
Catharine Savage Brosman
In drag-foot March, and fastening my coat
against a churlish wind, as I arrive
at the greengrocer's stall I have in mind
Bermuda onions, chard, asparagus,
red peppers, corn-a salad for the eye
and long-stemmed hothouse marvels hastening
the spring in every hue; but daffodils
to mark St. David's Day have frumpy blooms,
carnations wither, and the tulip buds
are February's orphans. As for fruit
and vegetables, the apples look as hard
as wood, and flavorless; my leafy thought
of salads dies. But broccoli is out
in florets, with the kindred cabbages
and Brussels sprouts. Such lowly ancestry
they have, these sprouts, so plain! They could be beads
or dresser knobs, or marbles for a game
with winter, and at thirty-seven pence
a pound are not patrician. Yet their sweet
and minimal design, their modesty,
repeating an idea of round desire
and touched with Cezanne blue, invite conceits
with painted tables, sunshine in the shape
of fruit, a bowl, a porcelain carafe,
or curtains at a window by Matisse
as if in all things green there were a grace
awaiting hand or eye to contemplate
the world transcended in its common ways.