Garden Tomatoes
A poem to say goodbye to summer
This summer was a whirlwind of creating (writing, performing, and recording with my band) and adventuring (solo camping, hiking, and getting weirdly into fishing). It feels like just yesterday I was suffocating under what felt like the hundredth snowstorm of the winter, longing for warmth and sun. And yet, at the same time, it feels like it’s always been summer. I hate to say goodbye to all the flowers and fungi and birds and bugs and everything that has made the world so vibrant and lively these past few months. But once again, I have to remember how to live without them.
I felt more creative this summer than I have in a long time, owing I think mainly to the amount of time I spent outside. It’s hard to spend hours and hours really living out in the season (extreme heat, biting insects and all) and not have something to say about it. Here is a poem about the strange abundance of life, as portrayed by a Midwestern summer.
Garden Tomatoes
The cherry tomatoes are cracking in the sun
It’s unabashed, making itself comfortable in the July sky
And I’m doing my best to match it.
My feet are bare in the dry grass, itchy
With the feeling that I don’t have a claim
To this patch of tamed wilderness (I call it a garden)
But I sink my toes and teeth in all the same.
Sunday we heard “consider the sparrows”
We were urged towards the lilies of the field
And we all agreed that they know better than we do.
They are so themselves that they don’t consider
What they might have done to receive their gifts,
Even those so staggering as wings or pure white petals.
I sat in the pew as I stand in the garden
Feeling every inch of my skin rub against the air
And learning to mix the strange sensation of hope
With tomato juice, sunlight, sparrow wings, and petals
Let it all flow across my tongue and drip, drip
Down my chin and onto my uncertain feet.
