Tomatoes on the kitchen sill

soften side by side,

still attached by a vestigial vine.


Supposedly there to ripen in the sun—

but there hasn’t been sun for months—


instead they catch the diffuse glow

of rain falling so slow

it might as well be standing still.


Light teased from a million droplets

by patient fronds of moss

infects plump red skins

with a subtle gleam

of longing.


Later, I cut one open

and find tiny green shoots

sprouting from its seeds.


(Previously published in Poems from Planet Earth Anthology, 2013)

Merritt, B.C.

The town of Merritt seemed empty and quiet, but the campground outside it was full of travelers. I left this poem on a park bench next to a gorgeous little creek.