You darken as my knife slices blushing at what you become. I save your thick leaves and purple skin to feed the cows. A peasant guest at any meal you agree to hide in fragrant stew or gleam nakedly in butter and chives. Though your seeds are tiny you grow with fierce will grateful for poor soil and dry days, heave up from the ground under sheltering stalks to sweeten with the frost. Tonight we take you into our bodies as if we do you a favor— letting your molecules become a higher being, one that knows music and art. But you share with us what makes you a rutabaga. Through you we eat sunlight, taste the soil’s clamoring mysteries, gain your seed’s perfect might.