While she is away, Katie texts
to say that we who are watering
in her absence should feel free
to pluck and eat the tiny rubies
masquerading as strawberries
in her garden.

“They’re small, but mighty,”
she writes.

Thinking of her fledgling crop,
I go to my backyard to water
and peer at Juliet who grows
taller each day and now sports
12 green mini Romas on her
octopus arms, tomatoes in
gestation.

“Look at you grow those babies,”
I tell her, noticing that two of her
offspring are beginning to pinken.
When they go glossy red and come
off easily in the hand, I look forward
to popping the first one in my mouth
to feel its squish.

I think of the late husband, the last
one to grow tomatoes in our yard,
and Buddy dog, who liked to snatch
them off the vine and gulp them
whole. Now, sans husband and dog,
the tomatoes will be mine to eat
and share.

“Tomatoes for strawberries,” I will tell
Katie when she returns, looking forward
to trading small baskets of our respective
crops. Even if our gardens produce only
a few tiny gems, I can already smell
the vegetal fragrance, savor summer’s
sweetness on my eager tongue.