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CHERRY TOMATOES
by Anne Higgins
Suddenly it is August again, so hot,
breathless heat.
I sit on the ground
in the garden of Carmel,
picking ripe cherry tomatoes
and eating them.
They are so ripe that the skin is split,
so warm and sweet
from the attentions of the sun,
the juice bursts in my mouth,
an ecstatic taste,
and I feel that I am in the mouth of summer,
sloshing in the saliva of August.
Hummingbirds halo me there,
in the great green silence,
and my own bursting heart
splits me with life.
by Anne Higgins
Suddenly it is August again, so hot,
breathless heat.
I sit on the ground
in the garden of Carmel,
picking ripe cherry tomatoes
and eating them.
They are so ripe that the skin is split,
so warm and sweet
from the attentions of the sun,
the juice bursts in my mouth,
an ecstatic taste,
and I feel that I am in the mouth of summer,
sloshing in the saliva of August.
Hummingbirds halo me there,
in the great green silence,
and my own bursting heart
splits me with life.
First, there are the plants with no fruit. We wait and wait for the first green marbles to ripen.
Then, suddenly, there are so many that we just about can't eat them all. I consume them carelessly, by the handful.
Now that the end of the productive season is in sight, I am back to savoring every one.
Such is life, no? The longing, the time of plenty, the loss.
Happy Friday -- enjoy a tomato today, and head over to Renee's place at No Water River for the roundup.