My tomatoes are growing unwieldy. I hardly tend to them, busy with life, children, Mom and words. Dad, my guardian gardener, must have been watching over my patch. I felt a nudge to pick a half-dozen beef-steaks, carry the plumpest one to where Mom lives and share it with her for lunch. I was only the intermediary, in this message of love.
Fruit of Labor
Tomatoes torn from stalks
after thunder and storm,
still warm from morning sun.
Bright reds reflect in her hazel eyes
when presented to her.
Whole, then sliced into quarters and chunks,
like she might have cut when canning.
like wet pebbles on sand.
Juices ooze over her fingers,
picking at the pieces, looking
for one last bite
September, 2012, Tomatoes at Arden Courts