My painting to go with this poem Carver County Treasure Rhythmic chomps stop the romping bronze-haired boy who pivots, spies a lady’s fingers clutch a Honeycrisp, a chartreuse fruit brushed rose like amaranth, called by those who know a fine “hand apple,” great for eating off the tree, juicy droplets shine like dew on lips scarlet-lined, and fingertips. The cheeky youngster lounges on the rustic orchard checkout, spouts a “Howdy,” watchful as the moneyed stranger munches on the crunchy treat; his mouth, a front tooth missing, waters as the one with deeper pockets savors flavor country-grown, a little rich for him, this white gold, gift-wrapped red. “That’s our apple,” touts the hovering, brown-eyed sprout, a produce patriot, proud of Carver County’s pricey prize. “Beats those ones from out-of-state,” drones the ruddy, budding spokesman, skinned fists firmly planted on slim hips poured in blue jeans handed down, scuffed knees buffed green with clover stains. The tourist chuckles and rewards the imp’s impassioned buzz, holds out her bucket tucked with Honeycrisps, offers him a couple; flashing back a scampish grin, he mumbles thanks, flies off to mom to share the wealth. Beaming pleasure, the woman turns to go, knowing who—not what—is local treasure Inspired by the group writing exercise at the Chanhassen Library visual poetry workshop.