Row upon row of 
collard green plants, 
rise up from the ground
leaves bunched tightly,
tips kissed with frost.
Chill means they are
 “ready for picking,”
taking home 
washing
simmering in a pot
with a leftover 
holiday ham bone.
After I savor the greens,
sop up the pot liquor
with fresh cornbread,
I wander out in the
remaining rows, 
planning meals made
from these “miles” of greens,
thinking “winter wonderland indeed.”