First Tomato of the Season

A Hometown Poem

I hoarded you, 
dainty little tomato, 
a gift from my mother, 
lovingly handpicked from her garden. 
I transported you across miles.

After waiting three days, 
staring at you from afar, 
like a lover unsure how to make the first move, 
the anticipation built, 
but I stalled, 
as if devouring you too soon, 
without thought or reverence, 
would be disrespectful. Or worse –
you might disappoint, 
and break some spell.

But now, today, 
I reach for the knife, 
the serrated one, to avoid a bruise. 
I take a breath, hesitating slightly. 
You are small, delicate, fragrant.
The first of the season, 
not much bigger than a golf ball. 
Vibrant, reddish-orange, 
a warm, inviting hue. 
You smell of vine and sun, 
piquant and fresh.

I pierce the skin gently, 
cutting five thin slices. 
Now greedy, 
I don’t even bother to plate you, 
but I am careful, 
lifting a slice reverently 
between my thumb and forefinger. 
The tang hits my tongue.
Sour, zingy, an explosion of sunshine in a bite.
Fresh, bright, full.

Oh, luscious little treasure,
you are no off-season, store-bought placeholder, 
no hothouse imposter. 
You are the real deal.
The standard by which 
farm stand and vine-ripened are measured.
Juicy mid-July blessing.
Sunkissed jewel of summer.

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Dear Reader: What are some of your favorite garden gifts of summer? Please share!

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