The Tomato Sutra

Driven from the growing shape of morning on the red stone patio,
called by the mulched path between woman-sized tomato plants,
I took my seat to breathe in early August shade.

To the left of the path, three plants. One: an heirloom Cherokee Purple
whose child nearly bursts out of its name next to a smaller green twin.
My fingers thrill against the give of its plump readiness, but I must wait
one more day for Sage, my own purpling daughter, to return. I want to see
what this strange fruit does to the shape of her eyes and face.

And of two Romas, only one of their sons approaches red in a sea
of green brothers. But what a sea! I dream of thawing winter salsa.

And then, because there is left, there is always right, on the right side
of this path is a family of Caspian Pinks. Queens of mazed branches full and broad,
blossoms promised high in lofty reach. Down low, no blooms or tiny fruits!
Midway, a few shriveled flowers inside inner architectures of green.
Of four plants only two diminutive green globes! But what generous shade!

I tell myself they must be late bloomers, like my own slow breasts
(how I prayed!), my own slow living, finally tall, full figured alphabet
putting out prayers above the cage, empty with promise, while others—
look at you dazzling beings!—already heavy with purple and red! I wait.

This is the Sutra of Cherokees, Romas and Caspian Pinks!
May every summer’s last blast of heat bring the least of these awake into the world.
Everything empty staggers toward a steady ripening, a delicious fleeting fall.
On all sides, may the perfect wisdom of this mantra be proclaimed:

tadyatha, mato mato, to om mato, to om om mato, bodhi svaha!

So, noble poets, gardeners, sons and daughters,
we should train in the profound perfection
of wisdom in this way, and rejoice!

2011