Another morning. I watch dark unfold
into gray silk lightening to bright above Stone
Mountain where lives the tax collector
out of sight and mind.
 
I walk to the well-house, turn on untainted
water from underground, a blessing
not quite taken for granted, in a garden
where ground-squirrels spare a few zucchini
 
and all my tomatoes have split from stem
to ripening into that full red summer taste I have
no word for. They’re ugly to a grocer’s eye.
Oh, the smell of stout green vines!
 
Another morning on two good legs to climb
back up to the house, its scrim of dust
and lacy cobwebs, homey spiders, kitchen
where coffee’s perked for my favorite mug.
 
Soon the TV news will ratchet up tragedies
and I’ll wonder at the unfairness of this
blooming world – how it works or doesn’t.
But I can’t argue with the tomatoes. 

© by Taylor Graham.
Used with the author’s permission.