by K.L. Johnston

Summer’s gift,
these old heirlooms keep giving.
By fall they’ll be vining up
over the fence, standing on trunks
thick as small saplings.

More than the solstice
these last fissured fat fruits
remind you of the when
in this bright season.

This one tomato
prepared in thick slabs
sprinkled with salt,
well peppered, enthroned
on cheese and baby basil
is a feast, the heart of summer.

Or you can eat one over the kitchen sink,
out of hand,
still smelling of morning’s heat,
that tang that does not survive
long journeys to the supermarket.

Lick the blessing from your fingers
(We’ve all done it)
when ripe juice runs down your chin,
rich trickling thick harvest.

K.L. Johnston is best known for award-winning poetry centered in spiritual experience, nature, and trauma survival. She is the author of three books of poetry, and her latest works have appeared in more than fifty literary magazines and anthologies. A retired antiques and art dealer she currently lives near the Savannah River.