It is tomato season.
Vines are pendulous with fruit
Colored like the margin of a rosy sunrise
Crowning above a forest canopy.
It is an expectant time.
Overhead you continue to call out.
-It has been several weeks now-
You give out a two note crescendo
A half-step up
Sounding like it is issued from a rusty slide-whistle,
A squeaky garden gate,
Not songful
Just barely an exhale.
Who do you seek?
And what do you want?
You are young perhaps
Needing to let go, but fledged forlorn,
Willfully abandoned and sent on your way…
You glide across a sky light
And then perch, showing yourself.
I raise my hands full of tomatoes
And offer them in a fruitless gesture:
I am with you
But I cannot come to your aid.
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