Swelling On The Vine

Outside, heat
and humidity promise
certain rain, likely thunder.

You left the first cucumber
and the first summer squashes
on the vine for a good last soaking

before picking them 
tomorrow. Crossed fingers
that downpours leave them intact,

that they will get
one more day
swelling on the vine.

First thunder, now; rain’s
not far behind, likely within 
the next half-hour.

It’s comfortable, cool
indoors. You could go out
and pick them now,

stay dry, savor
your fruits of labor; 
then the rain starts.

It’s hope,
you tell yourself,
hope and not laziness,

hope and not some fear
or some demon 
of procrastination that keeps you

from the harvest. One more day
till perfection. It’s not quite time.
They aren’t quite ready. 

You turn on news that’s filled
with tales of a monstrous thing
on the vine, ripening; 

quickly you turn it off
and close your eyes.
You aren’t quite ready 

for that harvest, either;
you try to convince yourself
it’s not quite time.

It’s a contest, always,
between perfection and
rot. You as always bet on the hope

of perfection as lightning
and heavy, heavy rain 
mass around you, images

of bounty sure to come
crowding out the death
riding on the rising wind.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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