Last of the Season

This was a banner year for tomatoes.

The tender seedlings

nurtured through the spring
grew into a dozen divas
accompanied by a ring of volunteers
raising their voices in the Ruth Stout bed
who chimed in to fill out the soprano section
so that by the time august sauntered in
I had a chorus of ripening orbs
and had memorized the recipe
for a wicked good tomato stock
with accents of whatever companions
were ripening with each new batch.

As the days grew shorter
and the harbinger geese
honked their looming crescendos
you don’t have to use much imagination
to picture that this year there was
some serious competition
for that last
luscious
tomato.

What a symphony.