Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Farmers Market

Born in the desert where tomatos grow,
Parked in the arctic where that just aint so,
You can't know,
How I miss them.

Stores in Alaska carry globes of red,
Travel tomatos, that's what we're fed,
Disappointment instead
Of  'mater blissdom.  

Short is the season, uncommon the gift,
To worry, and nurture, til gently you lift
A gem from the vine. But I'm miffed.
Not my wisdom.

So we journ to the tables of those who are able,
Dazed at the spectacle, amazed at the labels,
Shedding our gold 'til we're feeling unstable,
Still coulda kissed 'em.

Memories flood like the juicy, seedy, tangy, flavor of a just picked vine ripened tomato.

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