"second harvest" or "the call of the tomato"
In eager anticipation the first of the tomatoes ripened.
The glaring sun of each day sending the first ones into deepening red.
Slowly their progress is monitored.
Perhaps this will be the day of harvest.
Just a day more, waiting for the orange speck to deepen.
A distant roll of thunder awakens my lazy slumber.
Absence of light pouring through the blinds.
The dull glow of day.
Pounding of raindrops.
An unceremonious harvest, snatching them from their cradle.
The fanfare turned into a slink.
Sitting on the table, the jolly tomatoes watch the raindrops chase each other down the window pane.
***
Dear friends, I am not a poet, nor the son daughter of a poet. I don't think I have the creative juices to continue to write poems (loosely associated with the genre as they are) about every single vegetable I pick from my garden. I think you do get the point, though, that I very much enjoy the little lot of soil that produces yummy things for me to eat. So, though I know my readers are sitting with bated breath for "The Pepper that Peter Piper Picked", I think I will restrict my poems to my vegetables for special occasions from now on, and not for every time I pick one. :)