I am but a humble word farmer in the midst of these here wordy woods. I grow odd things in this gentle green clearing of mine, and I urge you to taste them all. Partake of my strange fruits and my verbose vegetables. There are no poison apples here, I promise you. There is no cabbage to give you gas, or peas you must eat before you are allowed to leave the table. I grow peaches shaped like lovely ladies’ bottoms, and it is no coincidence that my pomegranates’ blood red insides resemble the secret chambers of the human heart. Tomorrow I hope to discover a cavorting, fuzzy sea of dandelions the size of dolphins, for the making of both wine and wishes. The crop that pops up daily surprises me as much as you. I am but a humble word farmer, you see, and I never know what I’m going to grow.
Today it is trout that taste like pineapple--or perhaps pineapples shaped like trout. The lovely little fish-heads are sprouting up so thick in sections that when I tread too close, I mash them into an unsightly but delightfully tasty mess. Take it with you and make some jam. Spread it across your toast in the morning, thick and sweet; enjoy it with your coffee. Take my pineapple-trout; my fat, happy dandelions; my thin-skinned pomegranates near-bursting with their burden of the world’s sin and passion; my juicy, golden, peachy-keen globes.
Take all of it. Take none of it. I certainly don’t mean to sound pushy in my enthusiasm. Take as much or as little as you please. Gorge yourself or just smell a couple flowers; spend the day or take no notice whatsoever as you rush through on your way to someplace else. I don’t mind. I’m here. I’m happy. I want no profit, no praise, no immortality--the joy is in the growing. For I am but a humble word farmer.