First thing you notice is the color.
“Red” doesn’t do it justice.
This shade only exists in Technicolor.
They haunt my dreams in late February,
when a foot of snow covers the ground.
Not ruby, not scarlet, not cardinal.
“Pulsing red” because they beat
like hearts on my plate.
There are four left.
Last harvest of the season
sitting on the counter.
I won’t have the chance to taste them again
til next summer.
The knife sings, ecstatic as it releases
nectar and haloed seeds.
First bite: rapture.
Summer sun and rich soil
created vine-ripened ecstasy.
Sweetness of refreshing rains,
respite from 100 heat,
adds a grace note to the aria
bursting as I chew.
Far too soon, all that’s left
I raise the plate to my mouth and drink.