A Salad Poem

You dream the aroma

of a ripe tomato,

the twist and snap and green smell
of vine and sun-warmed hands.

It's all there in the seed,

or sapling bedded in loam.

You count forward-time,

hot days and long months,

until the plant hangs heavy,

a bowl returns full,

until you slice and salt

and pair

with half-moons of 

oozing cheese,

knee-buckling at

the sweet, hot swallow
of acid and saliva.

It’s all there,
as you tear open the package.

sprinkle the seeds.

Press them into egg carton cups.

A repository for summer,

an incubator of earth to mouth,

a sauce, a salsa, a sandwich.

You brush dirt over with your finger,

and feel the promise of wait.

What can I say?  It was a really long winter.  My feet are still cold.  In spite of the fact that my daughter has informed me she likes all my blog posts, except for the poems,well, a girl has to treat herself.  Daydreaming about a tomato brought me closer to a summer garden.