Saturday, September 10, 2011

Tomato

She is sick
She holds the tomato
that I have given her
from the garden.
She brings it to her nose
and smells it.
She rubs the brown
flecks of dust dirt
off until it shines
and hands it back to me

Like the Buddhist

Like the Buddhist I do not believe  in the afterlife but on Sundays  When the bells ring  in the lonely town  of Leverett And there are Thos...