We were green once,
in salad days,
fixed firm to umbilical vine,
slowly orange,
until, soaked in sun brine,
we plumped to red.
All as written by some sightless scribe
ordaining how life seeds,
or maybe
by some deliberate kindness
in back yard dirt
that soul and body feeds.
Gardeners wonder.
With thanks to Shakespeare
and to my firstborn, Dennis, the backyard gardener.
My son’s back yard
yields prodigiously,
vegetable-glutted
because rabbit-free.
So I have tomatoes
in my grandma’s old bowl —
what better emblem
of summer’s warm soul?
Such joy to the eye,
such promise of bliss —
the Louvre should have
such beauty as this!
How thoughtful Nature
to warm our eyes
before the year’s
glacéed demise.
What awesome palette,
it must be told,
that blends tomato
with marigold.
As home décor,
though bright and merry,
by that same Nature,
alas,
temporary.
Breathes there the gardener with soul so dead
who never to a friend has said,
“I grew these glorious slices of red!”
I’ve been gone, dear reader. Time travel. My dear old high school friends, Donna and Bill, have been visiting, and we had our own private tomato fest. Tomatoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, served with a heaping helping of boast: I GREW THESE! I believe this is my third gardening year not killing tomatoes, and I’ve not one shred of modesty about them.
The tomatoes were highly seasoned with reminiscing, laughing, and reflecting. To be with friends we’ve known since high school is a real privilege at this age, and rightly savored with summer’s bounty. We returned to gardens, tomatoes, and roadside farmers’ stands of the past, as we slathered butter on the hot corn of the present.
It is fitting to pull out the old family heirloom dishes and other eating finery no matter how casual we are. Eating together is a celebration, and a pretty plate seems the only way to go. Besides, what better way to wear a tomato?
Now comes the time of catch-up. (Sorry. I couldn’t resist.)
Apologies also to Sir Walter Scott.
I’ve written tomato posts before
I hope another won’t annoy ya
this is, I think, but half tomato
the other half’s sequoia.
For many years I’ve planted tomatoes in memory of my Grandpa Mauck. The smell of the plant always brings him back for me. Alas, the smell was about the extent of my harvest. I just couldn’t grow tomatoes. Until last year. Suddenly those Mauck gardening genes roused up, and I had actual tomatoes! I especially loved the pear tomato, so this year I tried another one, and, even though it was planted late and spindly, and in Someone Else’s Garden, it rallied and has taken exuberance to a whole new level, racing over and through the deck rail, and draping itself over the potted plants. I know that one morning I’ll wake up and find it wound around my ankle.
A pear tomato, marigolds, zinnias, dill…as you can see, dear reader, the garden is slowly, slowly becoming mine. (MINE, you wretched rabbits and Japanese beetles and chipmunks, MINE! Not YOURS!!)
I’m lonesome for a garden
so I try the produce table
but Nature never made
a tomato with a label,
so it doesn’t scratch my itch
or cure me of my ails;
I need to meet some worms
and see dirt under my nails.
Rejoice with me, dear reader,
and witness victory:
I’ve grown actual tomatoes
I’m chuffed and filled with glee!
When I walk through a nursery
the tomatoes run and hide
they know my reputation
for black-thumbed tomatocide.
An occasional single fruit
a miser’s salad plate
was the most I’ve ever gleaned
or could anticipate.
But, lo, a red ripe miracle
such glories on the vines!
I’ve danced the gardener’s jig
and changed my name to Heinz.
Oddments 