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)

Goodbye B.C.!

We took a break from everything last night and slept in a hotel in Calgary. Chris, my traveling partner, was ill and we pretty much just collapsed in a Holiday Inn. So no poetry happened, but I will leave you with my final view of the rockies: blurry mountains outside a rainy car window!

Today I hope to do some quality guerilla-poetry in Alberta and possibly Saskatchewan! More on that later.