The memorial is tomorrow, followed by several receptions. Therefore, today, I distracted us all by making us drive an hour and half to Otis Orchards to pick one hundred and fifty seven pounds of tomatoes for sauce. We will not run out this year. This year we can give Christmas presents. Send me your address, poemfriends.
I wrote a little poem about Tomato Day 2014:
Harvest. The Earth is giving up her fruit.
A hard frost brings the day immediate.
Extant and crucial, for this will be the year of the sauce,
all acid and spice.
We will not run out, this year,
no, not this year. This year our friends get jars packed in cheesy t-shirts,
This year we can share.
Among the vines we met a couple.
Japanese, Vietnamese, Lao, or Hmong, and we communicated
more without language than we would would’ve with it,
and as he responded to my “hello”, and looked into my bucket,
and gestured to the Romas.
Whatever we are making,
what is this humming thing that we are making?
Whatever we are making, it needs a slow simmer,
and constant stirring.
It requires straining, and the discarding
of pulp and seeds. This is the labor,
that makes our forearms itch with excitement
and prickles of satisfaction
and the idea of the work ahead,
it is the work that makes cry at onions,
which is better than all the reasons provided recently,
by the universe.
We understand cortisol and onions.
This might take long and sad minutes to understand.
But somehow when that steam fills our windows,
we take turns stirring,
We did pick a lot of tomatoes today. That did take my mind of things. That said, my mind doesn’t really want to be off things, and so it goes where it will. Good Friday, to you poemies.