I woke at 0430.
Couldn't go back to sleep.
A poem crept into my mind.
The start of one, anyway.
So I got up and let it out.
Here it is.
Tomatoes in the Ground
Tomatoes in the ground
Today;
Cages all around
Today;
I saw the sign of others,
Though not the ones I bought
Not the heirloom slicer,
Nor the reddish orange Roma,
Looking more pepper than tomato;
Just some scattered cherries;
Brave little flags,
Not quite gray,
Not quite green,
But there if you know to see them,
Just above the ground.
They are there nonetheless.
Nonetheless – a word of promise,
For the flags are but a promise,
Of the distant future,
When all the others
Are long past,
Long distant,
Memories
Of something -
Something vaguely familiar;
Something of – maybe – wonder;
Something vaguely distant;
A flavor maybe:
A tarte perhaps;
A salad for sure;
A salad of thick red slices
On a bed of green romaine
Scattered with capers
Dashed with oil
Topped with white balsamic,
Pepper sometimes too.
But in that distant future
Those will all be gone
And October if she’s kind,
October if she’s gentle
She’ll leave all the volunteers
The ones I saw today
Brave little volunteers
Brave little flags of green and maybe gray
One more soup, one more salad, one more Moroccan egg concoction
Cherries work for that
When the bigger ones are gone
And then October
Or maybe it’s November
One or the other
Creeps up and freezes them all
And we wait for tomatoes
In the ground again.
Maybe again.
Maybe.
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