You must grow your own miracles.

Special has been hormoned
and hardened against the bump
and bruise. Pretty in the produce
aisle, but pithless and pitiful.

I prefer a nude stocking sling
for the heft, a slow blush,
not the red-on-arrival rouge
needled in the green-to-go.

In a hot June—the prize, only
once a year, the furrowed fruit
weighs down its stems for clipping
in your open hand, quite full
of tender skin.

Take care carrying
them to the kitchen, prepare
the bed of lettuce or only bread
and mayo, and oh! say a prayer before
you slice a single slice and lay
the flawless redness down and bite.
~Rick Maxson “Beefsteak”

As August fades away, I am impatiently watching our garden tomatoes ripen slowly. I hope they can soon be harvested, bulging red and ripe, a miracle on the vine, before the rains and blight set in. Then I can walk past the grocery store’s produce section with tomatoes displaying surface perfection and no flavor.

Ordinarily, I love and anticipate autumn’s arrival each year. Now, at seventy, I am autumnal year-round. The threat of seasonal blight leading to rot becomes personal. Lived out in real time, aging isn’t all “pumpkin spice” and “harvest gold.”

So who am I in this season of my life? I have been planted, weeded, nurtured, watered and warmed in anticipation of a glorious harvest. Before long, all must be gathered in.

The garden is a daily reminder: time is short, there is so much yet to get done.