Vermont's Independent Voice
Browse News + Opinion
Browse Arts + Life
Browse Food + Drink
Browse Cannabis
Browse Music
Browse Movies
Browse Events
Browse Classifieds
Browse Personals
I stepped outside
to pick tomatoes after the rain
barefoot, shirtless, end of summer
Filling my hands with basil
twisting plump tomatoes
from their wiry green vines,
I juggled them carefully
on the way back to the house,
feet soaked from the wet grass
I came back inside
And New Orleans was underwater
Mississippi, I guess, floated
about a mile in the other direction
from what I could tell
from the TV
I set the tomatoes down on the counter
turned them over in my hands
wiped off the dirt and wet leaves
from the ripe skins
I traced my little finger along their bulging scars:
They were so goddamn big
that they were splitting in two,
like a giant, red heart
from a children's book.
Speaking of , poem
-
Obituary: Susan Green, 1943-2019
Mar 18, 2019 -
Obituary: John Bowles, 1970-2019
Mar 14, 2019 -
Obituary: Marcia L. Mason, 1932-2019
Mar 14, 2019 -
Letters to the Editor (3/13/19)
Mar 13, 2019 -
Free Will Astrology (3/13/19)
Mar 13, 2019 - More »
