I think love is a sphere & Farmer’s Market by Rory Fox
I think love is a sphere
i think love is a sphere,
an orb,
a globe
there is depth
there is surface
there is diameter
there is circumference
i see parallels in the ways
that we traverse love
just like we travel the world
will you ever forget
the places you were?
the places you’ve loved,
been loved,
and loved others?
do we carve our initials into trees
to leave scars,
to be remembered?
maybe love is a basketball
scuffed from the court
loved by a boy
dear to his heart
is the dirt and the grime
a marker of love over time?
do we write our names in hearts
to leave stains,
to be remembered?
i think love is a sphere
an orb,
a globe
on the surface, scarred
in the depths, warm
and as you traverse through it all
you’ll find dirty basketballs
initials carved in trees
and names written in hearts
every place is a story
left to read or be written
and in all of its glory
there are still things left hidden
go uncover the secrets
touch the stars
the scars
and keep in mind when they say
“to be loved is to be changed”
Farmer’s Market
The earthy scent of fresh produce and flowers dominated the atmosphere of the farmer’s market. Every corner I turned, I was surprised with a vivid palette of berries, vegetables, perennials, and people— so many people. It was a tad overwhelming, to say the least. I felt as though I was about to drift away with the breeze, like my spirit was being carried throughout the plaza whilst feelings, smells, and sights alike overloaded my senses.
“Pardon, ma’am, but do you need assistance?” I heard a voice question, snapping me out of my daze. I turned around and found myself locking eyes with a sweet old man carrying a basket of flowers. He smiled brightly and radiated youth in contrast to the wrinkles that littered his face. “Are you asking me?” I asked him. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, please let me know if you have any questions,” He chirped. I neglected to respond to him— instead, I surveyed the rows of planters in front of me, inspecting each bouquet, trying to get a sense of what spoke to me. In the back, I noticed a small bouquet of some dainty baby’s breath, with its miniature ivory petals swaying in the wind. They were so small and delicate— I always felt that they carried feelings of hope and new beginnings. I gently rub the petals between my fingertips, frowning as they wither away in my soft grasp. I grab the bouquet and make my way towards the old man. “These, please.” I said, pointing to the bouquet. He rang me up and bid me a good day.
With the bouquet in hand, I sauntered blocks down the road with little observation of my surroundings. Upon arrival at my destination, I entered through the steel gates, crossed the gravel paths, and settled in front of an engraved slab of rock embedded in the dirt. The engraving read in all caps, “Beloved daughter, cousin, niece, and friend. May she rest in peace.” I read that over a few times before dusting off the dirt that accumulated in the engraved letters. Then, while resting on my knees, facing towards the gravestone, with my palms together, I prayed. I prayed and I sobbed. My tears stained the dusty stone, or rather, they cleansed it. When I regained my composure, I gently placed the bouquet of baby’s breath on top of the gravestone, where it would not cover any of the lettering. Wiping my tears on my sleeve once more, I stood up.
And with that, she bid me a good day.
“I scrapped ‘I think love is a sphere’ due to the fact that I think the metaphor is not cohesive with the theme presented. I don’t really bring up any references to depth, surface, diameter, or circumference after the first stanza. I kind of got lost in the idea of love leaving scars and marks so that we can all remember how each other felt, instead of comparing love to a sphere.
I got a lot of feedback on ‘Farmer’s Market’ which was generally discouraging. Many didn’t understand what I meant when I wrote, “And with that, she bid me a good day.” This frustrated me because that sentence meant a lot to me in comparison to the rest of the piece, so my stubborn self just gave up on it and scrapped it. If you are curious, it is a way of saying that the deceased girl is telling the woman good-bye, and to have a good day. It is supposed to tie back to when the flower shop man wishes the woman a good day.”
Rory Fox uses they/them pronouns and was born and raised in Buffalo, New York, where they spent most of their first seventeen years of life cruising through grade school being one of the “smart kids”. This phase sadly ended when they headed out to college in Rochester, New York, to study Game Design and Development. That’s when Rory had quickly realized that coding was not for them— however, with the help of an impulsively adopted cat and many mental breakdowns, Rory had rediscovered their childhood passion for writing. You can find more of their work on tumblr under the handle waiting4smthn2happen.