Tomato Season

It ended the usual way:
frost taking them in steps,
the large leaves first,
the hopeful fingering buds
wilted at the ends of stalks.
Then, one morning, the fruit:
green, glassy, transparent
to their heart-stopped cores.

I had seen the full baskets,
I had lifted them—pollen-sweet heft
on an August afternoon, my hands
damp with split skins and seeds,
so easy—Brandywines
minding their stripes, Romas
pointing torpedo heads
at the stray squash vines.
Just watch and tie and tend—I had only
to drink it while it was there.

I have swept. I have turned.
Even weeds won’t grow
under this empty eye,
this windblown cheek
of winter. In the house,
the cat finds a corner of sun
and sleeps.



Amy Miller

About Amy Miller

Amy Miller’s poetry has appeared in Northwest Review, Nimrod, Crab Orchard Review, Many Mountains Moving, Willow Springs, and ZYZZYVA. She won the Cultural Center of Cape Cod National Poetry competition, judged by Tony Hoagland, and was a finalist for the 2012 Pablo Neruda Prize and 49th Parallel Award. She works as the publications manager for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and blogs at
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