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.