at least once a season,
i sacrifice a tomato.
i watch shades of green transform
into an ombre of yellow, orange, red
til finally, overripe on the vine,
it falls to the ground.
i offer it back to the land
as a thank you,
an homage to the cycle of life
from which humans are often so far separated.
i watch it soften,
losing its taut, round shape
as morning dew and July sun leave their mark
i witness a lucky robin,
just a week or two past fledgling,
learning that my garden provides more
than ants and isopods.
she munches away,
feet from where she first left the nest.
i let her feast,
grateful for her safety
under a canopy of tomato leaves.
i have hope she'll return
when the flowers go to seed,
when the landscape begins to go dormant
to learn that i left the heads on the sunflowers
for the perfect winter snack.
to discover i cut back the black eyed susans,
the roses, and the echinacea,
but i leave their stalks behind,
piled high in the garden
for pollinating insects to nest
and young birds to seek shelter.
maybe next year,
when i sacrifice another tomato,
she will show her offspring
the hidden bounty offered here
at least once a season,
i sacrifice a tomato.
8/17/24