You dream the aroma
of a ripe tomato,
the twist and snap and green smell
of vine and sun-warmed hands.
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.
of acid and saliva.
It’s all there,
as you tear open the package.
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.
