(no subject)
On Sunday the light changed, becoming slanted and golden. Today the fields smelled like fallen leaves and dying clover. The local farmer let me traipse alone through the feathery asparagus, lush vines, gravel drive and scattered farm equipment to the tomato greenhouse, to pick my own. She handed me a basket and plump fruit to taste: red, orange, pink, and purple; round, oval, and heart-shaped. They were sweet, juicy, acidic. I clipped vines as the grey of cloudy dusk deepened, rain waiting in the wings. I paid in the dark, and came home with a bag that smelled like summertime. One more week, she told me.