The pistachio waits in Turkish stalls,
split open like a secret, green and sweet.
It knows its worth. It hears the vendor's calls,
and answers only those with coin to meet.
But sesame — that ancient, humble seed —
it feeds the poor, it graces wealthy hands.
Today a soup, tomorrow's pastry bead,
it crosses every border, every land.
One sits in shells like jewels in a case.
One disappears in oil, in paste, in bread.
One asks for ceremony, time, and place.
One simply asks: are you in need of fed?
I take them both. I do not choose between.
The white, the black, the gold, the hidden green.