Foliage waves in the wind,

 sun soaks orange beets, crinkly skin

roots clutch soil

tips thrust up, beg to be pulled, plopped

in boiling water, like live lobsters.

Bubbles rumble, cook beets, loosen grime

which dim as fingers rub off skin—

round balls shine like a baby’s butt.

Warm     ready to slice, 

to butter      sweet   treats.