Summer’s end signals the presence of ripe tomatoes in my overgrown garden. Different types, heirlooms grown from seed, vines slide slowly to the ground under the weight.
Fall feeling day, hummingbirds pay me no mind as I move my garden hod through the vines, picking up large tomatoes, many blemished, fine by me.
Blanched, peeled and processed, there is a fine tomato soup in the future, especially when I push past some friendly weeds to find the basil planted earlier this summer.
Early evening, sun in the west window, kitchen is aglow. Cleaning up, a solid field of tomato seeds and membrane covers the bottom of my white porcelain sink. Bright red, and red orange, floating with dun seeds, a moment of extraordinary color that took a summer to grow. So common, so rare.
Hard to know what we are here for, if not to notice moments such as these.
Shouldn't...but Do 
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