Because it's not quite September yet

Rosemary in late August

As the days of August dwindle, there's still time to squeeze in one more gorgeous poem on the subject, this time by my friend Anne Higgins: 

Cherry Tomatoes

Suddenly it is August again, so hot,
breathless heat.
I sit on the ground
in the garden of Carmel,
picking ripe cherry tomatoes
and eating them.
They are so ripe that the skin is split,
so warm and sweet
from the attentions of the sun,
the juice bursts in my mouth,
an ecstatic taste,
and I feel that I am in the mouth of summer,
sloshing in the saliva of August.
Hummingbirds halo me there,
in the great green silence,
and my own bursting heart
splits me with life.
This poem makes me taste summer and feel its heat permeate my skin.  And how can I not be ravished by a phrase like "the attentions of the sun," or the Virgin-Mary-meets-Frida-Kahlo image of a halo of hummingbirds?  


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