At the pepper peddler,
red through purple hues
waxy sweet in the sun.

Each row a rainbow
with heirloom types
with smells to wake
the April smile.

Sweater draped on old shoulders,
he picks a peck
and lets
his eyes close
a poblano at his nose.

Instinct takes a bite,
flash back to
clothing lacked.

Dark rim finger nails
tear at the earth,
before organic
was special.


-Shawn Milburn
Shawn Milburn was raised by California hippies and has stuck close to home, living with his family near San Francisco. He has been writing lyrics and poetry for over thirty years, and decided to start sharing it in 2019. When not managing a hotel near the Golden Gate, Shawn will usually be in his wood shop making gifts for friends.