First Frost
Seasons done...
First frost,
Tomatoes on the vine,
Ripe, red, rosy,
Surrender their watch
Of the summer command.
The taste and feel of freshly plowed earth
Now a distant memory of spring last,
The planting done, awaiting first buds
As water trickles down it’s crooked it’s path
To quench the newborn life.
Summer,
Hot, arid, weedy, work,
The budding blossoms now green and hard
Sitting teasingly, tempting taste of that to come.
Sweet August as the fruit bears fruitation
And the success of patience and love
Brings forth the first fresh BLT’s.
One never thinks one could tire
Of something so fresh and precious and good,
Grown from rich black dirt, not long water tubs,
Now, fall harvest nearly finished,
First frost and all is lost
But for the memory.
Tomatoes on the vine,
Ripe, red, rosy,
Surrender their watch
Of the summer command.
The taste and feel of freshly plowed earth
Now a distant memory of spring last,
The planting done, awaiting first buds
As water trickles down it’s crooked it’s path
To quench the newborn life.
Summer,
Hot, arid, weedy, work,
The budding blossoms now green and hard
Sitting teasingly, tempting taste of that to come.
Sweet August as the fruit bears fruitation
And the success of patience and love
Brings forth the first fresh BLT’s.
One never thinks one could tire
Of something so fresh and precious and good,
Grown from rich black dirt, not long water tubs,
Now, fall harvest nearly finished,
First frost and all is lost
But for the memory.
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