Nestled deep in the vines
is a flash of bright red –
the last fruit of the season.
My knees in the dirt, I reach
inhaling the earthy greenness
of lingering summer
until
cupped in my hand
is a tomato
so sun warmed and perfect
that I am tempted
to pierce the tender skin with my teeth
and let its juices wet my tongue.
Instead, I halve
its beauty with a knife,
then scoop the flesh and seeds
into a watery jar
to ferment and mold
like a family secret.
In a day or two,
I’ll scrape and rinse,
collect the heavy sinkers from the bottom of the jar,
and carefully wrap them in netting to hang and dry
through the cold, dark months of another winter;
an unbroken line
to another spring.
