I know it’s silly to get all squishy about
electric red tomatoes hanging like tiny

festive lanterns from the vines, but
look at ’em glowing as if lit from within,

which they might well be. And now,
in late September, nearing what has to be

the end of their season, I still get such
a wallop of joy, knowing that they simply are,

that I find it difficult to pluck them from
their birthplace. But barely touching

one, inhaling its earthy, herbal musk,
feeling it plunk into my hand like the gift

that it is, sends me soaring, as if that
cute boy on the bus had looked my way

and smiled—really smiled—at me.
How nice to be chosen. How my fingers

curl around that tasty token, soon
to nourish the likes of me,

as love has done again and again,
even when I wasn’t paying attention.