Her head presents large as a cabbage
when I pluck her from my garden—
stony ground all but bare after harvest.
She looks the way I want to remember her—
a salad—tulle of lettuce leaves 
pale as the embrace of her pea-pod green eyes.
She demurs with a wilting expression.
I add three cups of arugula, julienned cucumber,
a handful of basil leaves, slice an avocado in half
and prise out the pit to suspend from three toothpicks
in a tall glass of water on the windowsill. She wears
the last vestiges of summer, her voice liquid,
teeth regular as kernels of corn, tomato lips,
slipping out words of August—the way she quotes
The Old Farmer’s Almanac as if it is poetry or passages
from a romance novel. I add a dribble of olive oil,
a dash of spring water for blending, a quarter cup 
of green onions and two minced garlic cloves
bedazzled with chopped dill.  
In the blender I render the dressing ‘til saucy,
splash the elixir over her and imagine
her moan of pleasure as I sprinkle
salt and pepper to taste.