July

July spills a surfeit of vegetables onto my kitchen floor--
fire red tomatoes, golden squash,
green cucumbers and royal purple beans
tumble from white enamel washpans and broken oak baskets.
They glow like rampant jewels

retrieved from long-lost treasure chests buried in the garden loam.

It is mid-summer; the bounty is effortless and wanton.
I choose only the best to be preserved for winter use.
The imperfect offerings are tossed aside—
a scarred skin or a spot where a box turtle has nibbled a hole
is enough to send a tomato to the garbage bucket;
the chickens will enjoy a feast of discards.

In winter, the bruised tomato and spotted bean
would be carefully trimmed and the good parts
saved to be added to a simmering pot of hearty soup.
In winter, soup from even imperfect vegetables
recalls the freshness of summer.

In July it is the chickens who savor the leavings.

After the lavish destruction and careful preservation of the day

--cut, chop, boil, freeze, store--

I rock in my chair on the porch,

listen to the chickens' contented cackles,
survey the gardens and plan tomorrow's work.
The ruby sun filters through leaves

already suggesting the coming autumn gold.