To the Tomato Gods
A poem, with a side of basil.
If it’s miracles you’re after,
then in the darkest days of December
purchase packets of tomato seeds
and hold them close, like holy cards,
and recite the litany of their names
as a stay against winter’s cruel claws:
Brandywine, Oxheart, Black Krim, Rosella;
Honey Gold, Pink Girl, Moon Glow, Tigerella;
Chianti Rose, Sunrise, Orange Jazz, Tangella.
And wait. Attend.
Abide as the Earth spins you around again
to the laughing days of late February,
the sound of snowmelt running
off rooftops in strings
of shimmering beads,
singing the prelude to spring.
This is the time to begin.
This is the time for burying things,
now, during this ancient Lent.
Hold each seed in your hand until you feel
its weight; bate your breath, and wait
for a vision of unfolding, & division, & growing.
If the vision never comes, proceed on faith:
bury the seeds like so many treasures
in so many tiny…
