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  • As I gather tomatoes, the sky falls toward me. I press soft
    ripe flesh against my breasts. All that roundness, that red.
    Grey sky. Rain blends the sky into the earth, a sprinkle of water
    leaves droplets on my breasts and on the tomatoes. In the wash
    of grey, yellow chrysanthemums shine like lights, lavender ones
    lean toward the sky. Mums, orange and red, blossom between,
    and raindrops fall and fall. I harvest yellow squash,
    and broccoli, gather the small heads left between the leaves
    after large heads have been harvested. The raindrops shimmer
    on the silvery blue-green buds. The basket of vegetables,
    tonight’s supper, looks like a photo the rain won’t let me capture.
    Silence sits inside my head. Solitude blesses me now
    because later, my husband will gather, touch and taste me
    the way I am tasting now these wet tomatoes.


    for Kathy Weinberg
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