’Tis the season, hot August
hoppers filled with our city’s
(sort of) namesake lumbering
north on I-5 for processing,

the two of us driving home
after a weekend in the mountains,
spotting the familiar image of
a California summer—

14 double-trailer’d hoppers
lugging untold tons of tomatoes
to the plant in Williams to be
mooshed into all manner of

—tomato paste
—diced tomatoes
—tomato puree
—fire roasted tomatoes
—dried tomatoes
—chili sauce
—plus ketchup base.

We exclaim, Tomatoes!
as each truckful trundles
into view on the opposite side
of the highway, as if we’ve
never seen such gleaming
red bounty heaped high in
transit, as if we’ve not learned
about the round-the-clock
harvests for 12 to 14 weeks
in our tomato-happy state,

your hand gently squeezing
one of my ever-aging tomatoes
each time we spot a hopperful
driving by,

me giggling as if mine were
still young and firm and ripe,
(as if both of us were still
young and firm and ripe).

Here’s to the red fruit of the field
or homegrown multicolored
gems ripening in back yards—
some yellow, orange, green,
burgundy, others streaked and
striped—

tastiest when plucked fresh
off the vine, sun-warmed,
ready to pop into the mouth,
to enjoy the squish and savor
the flavor of summer
right here, right now.