by Marge Piercy
Tomato seedlings are spindly
some just pale green threads.
At this stage, a breeze could
break them, not enough water
too much shrivel their tiny
bodies. They need heat,
light, food. Their shells
are cast off, nutrients eaten.
Who can imagine the jungle
they’ll create, looming dense
and fierce in August, laden
with so much fruit they claim
our days to harvest, can
and of course gobble them
raw, cooked, in salads. Our
meals, ruled by their fruit.
Then they’re all gone
and we have only sauce.
Mason Street 