Friday, September 25, 2015

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Picking Tomatoes










These are the cherry tomatoes my father picked
on the morning he died

He woke at 7:15, missing the sunrise by half an hour
on the morning he died

He pulled on his summer robe and brown leather slippers
on the morning he died

And made his way upstairs to the kitchen
Dug around in the container-drawer
For a plastic dish then stepped outside

His back yard faces southwest, there was dew on the grass
Sunlight slanted between the houses
And cut across the pepper plants and rose bushes

On the morning he died
He didn’t hesitate as he drew his feet through the lawn

On the morning he died
His fingers found the bright red balls surrounded by green leaves

On the morning he died
He filled up his cup with cherry tomatoes,

Which I am now eating one by one