a harvest in summer

 

the weekend was hot, yet again. a heavy fog forming, forming, forming until sinking its heavy boots deep into the summer grass, covering the ground with humidity. with no breeze, the leaves on the limbs just sit stagnant, quivering only when a bird or squirrel hops from branch to branch.

but the upside about the heat? the tomatoes have ripened. they are deep and red and sweet as candy. we stood in the middle of the day and ate them by the vine as the sun beat against my bare shoulders and feet. if there's going to be no relief from the hours of sweating and seeking air condition, at least there is fruit. or vegetable? either way, i'm not complaining.

because soon enough, fall will come marching in, and winter quick on its heels. and we will don our cardigans and jeans with moccasins and wrap scarves around our chilly necks. and we'll look at that spot beside the corn and the muscadines, diminished by then to a dirt square. and we'll remember the bounty of summer. and ache for the days when nine o'clock still meant dusky light and mornings arrived with birds and rooms bathed in yellow.