by Louise Gluck
It's autumn in the market—
not wise anymore to buy tomatoes.
They're beautiful still on the outside,
some perfectly round and red, the rare varieties
misshapen, individual, like human brains covered in red oilcloth—
Inside, they're gone. Black, moldy—
you can't take a bite without anxiety.
Here and there, among the tainted ones, a fruit
still perfect, picked before decay set in.
There were several poems on A Writer's Almanac that were pitch-perfect for my life this week, but this one seems particularly apropos. We've had our first frost, and the rains today (and forecast for tomorrow's market day -- pity the farmers standing out in the chill and damp with their final harvest) are starting to bring down the leaves. It's getting darker. The only drama about this season of death is the drama we humans create. For the earth, it is business as usual as the seasons turn, one after the other.
The round up this week is at Picture Book of the Day.