Tomato Prayers

Something about a tomato
wants to be worshipped, coaxes lips
to move in unison.
Fat Buddha
on the windowsill, unperturbed,
the summer’s sunlight gathered
and held.
In multitude, in excess we bring
the great giving fruit
to friends, we carry them
in baskets, in bags,
we present them in our hands
to the secret lover
who hefts the red weight
like the full measure
of love. And even
the forgotten ones, softening
behind the breadbox, dropped
in the field, lost in the
vegetable bin — those
flattening skins
and the burst of small seeds
remind us, like a not-unpleasant
childhood memory,
of what was
and of what will be —
that moment
when prayer turned soil,
and our very hearts,
into the next season.

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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