I’d watch him early mornings, pre-work hours,
Examining his plot aside the fence,
He’d smile to see the haze of yellow flowers,
That patience soon would bear some evidence.
I wondered how the psyche of this man,
His fingers slaked and bruised with mason’s glue,
Could find contentment, purpose from his land
that ‘fore and after work, he’d tend and hoe.
With pride, when harvest came, he’d reap the gift,
These beauties, filling bushels from the shed,
His chore of love became his evening shift,
We’d marvel at the bounty, rife and red.
Decades hence, with Romas from a stand,
I put up stores of fruit, with him in mind.
Each August, I devote several weekends lovingly coring, peeling and processing Jersey tomatoes from the farmers’ markets. I cannot help but think of Dad, a hardworking tile man, and remember how proud he was of his garden in the back – especially his crop of tomatoes. I remember, too, the Sunday visits home, when he and Mom would load us up with cans of tomatoes from the shelf on the way to the basement. This photo is more than just a bunch of tomatoes…it’s evidence of a treasured legacy.
Official Dogwood Photography Challenge
Week 37 Storytelling: Seasons
The weather is changing! Find inspiration in the seasons.
Great photographers can tell a story with an image.