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Dave Bonta
Yesterday afternoon, I picked and ate a ripe cherry tomato from my garden. For those who shuddered at my report of an early snowstorm two weeks ago, the real news here is the unprecedented lateness of a frost. Those white shooting-stars that were bent down by the snow? They’ve put out new blossoms.
It’s hard what to know what to make of it all, but this much I can tell you: the tomato was delicious.
Deep in the weeds,
the wrong shade of red for autumn:
last ripe tomato.
not much more
red and yellow tomatoes
behind a string fence
These are not the tomatoes she wanted,
Heirlooms such as Cherokee Purple, or
Even Brandywines. But the clerk only
Sells what's brought in, finds labels, wands
Each three-inch pot through as she would
A bag of chips or box of three penny nails.
Really, the old woman muses, I should have
Ended my day at the seedsman, but it's not
Near here -- what, twenty miles? So I've
Opted for the discount store again, to buy
These things that hurt my soul: hybrids.
There's this about them, they do produce
Heavy fruits that please her folks and friends
Easily enough, and in larger numbers. But
To her there's something in them lacking.
Old varieties taste of the eyes of young