Roasting tomatoes. While roasting tomatoes what did she discover about poetry?

The common becoming uncommon. Smitten by the simple -- somewhat plotless. Somewhat alluring. Braiding the opposites -- ripe & minimal.

Growing up in Jersey, she thought she knew all she needed to know about tomatoes -- bulbous, fleshy, juicy. Then, she came upon the petite zebra stripe. Oh my. Green & ripe. No need to batter & fry.

Tomatoes. Tomatoes are ubiquitous and grand much like poetry, no?

Yes.

So many varieties to the varietals -- shape, size, color. Some painted as a Bonnard sunset/sunrise.

Poetry is a kind of legal, ingestible nightshade.

Habit forming.

Necessary.

Yummy.

Tomatoes. My friend Kim says tomatoes are the best fruit and what does this have to do with poetry?

Heirloom.
Nothing less that silhouette of memory. So fresh. May I say deliciously stark yet juicy. Nightshade never sweeter. Oh, so kind.


MINIMALIST EPIC: Contemplating heirloom tomatoes, she boils petite potatoes

red
yellow
purple

simple math of color
and yet, she never saw such purple
especially potatoes

notwithstanding
basil
plentiful

and, oh so willing