Halved

This is the work of shadowed reflection.  Like only one side of a spoon. Half the alphabet.  Is it any surprise, here are no ripe tomatoes left?  

 

Trade in grade school teachers' red pencils for this

the streak of a redwing blackbird across vibrant trees.  See the ruffling.  Nothing crossed out. Nothing negated. Use the alphabet accordingly; cook with sassy colors.  A slice of heirloom tomatoes across greens.  Yummy.

Spokes

A moment of time when its spokes are still.

When I'm silent, what moves within me?

When a tomato is being picked, what is it's center saying to the departing vine?

What does a blue umbrella think of a blue sky?  Or of wind rearranging leaves on the closest tree?

And will the next poem begin with heirloom tomatoes and a blue umbrella?  Wind, caught in time's spokes?

What about tomatoes and apricots straddle a poem?

Color. Specifically, mixed medley cherry tomatoes (organic) and Turkish apricots. To which add an accent of green. Perhaps basil. Oil oil and wild fennel vinegar, might do nicely. Or snap peas with their inherent nature of haiku. Meanwhile, haiku (the cat) straddles the cellophane box of tomatoes and the bag of apricots.