Walk
your dog past my yard in July and you’ll see
I waste
nothing on grass, for my postage stamp place
has
just room for Mom Nature and me to agree
that I
spend sunny days with red juice on my face
and a
shaker of salt in my idle right hand.
They’re
my gift to myself for no reason at all
though while
biting and dripping I hear a command
to
thank God for the blessings between spring and fall.
Then my
mind plays a film of sweet summers long gone
when my
late mom and dad did their ultimate best
to
indoctrinate us—yes, and sometimes at dawn--
on what
comes from the soil. Every day was a
test,
hands
and knees to begin, but at last when the crop
paid us
back, green or red, it was patience, we learned,
which rewarded
in spades. Even now every drop
of that
precious red juice is a memory earned
in the
scrapbook of Time. Thus, while parked
for an hour
with a
puddle of pleasure between my bare feet,
no approaching pet-walker detects the sheer power
of tomatoes.
And me?
I don’t notice the heat.
