Bell Jar Tomatoes

Each tomato nestled insideBell Jar.jpg
one of seven bell jars
soldiered neatly atop our garden wall.

“It’s an experiment,” she whispered,
clad in raincoat and boots,
umbrella ready at hand.

“What kind of experiment?” I returned,
no rain gear for me, an adult without worry of storm.

“It’s a mystery,” she breathed,
eyes intent on vermillion,
globes luminous in the gloaming.

“And how will we know…” I slapped at my arm,
gnawed by a hungry mosquito.

“The Frog Children will come!”
Her incredulous wide eyes squared at me,
not allowing a finish to my question.

“Of course. I forgot.” I bowed to her fervor.

“They will come through the steam.”

“You mean fog.”

“No! The steam.”
And she steered her umbrella toward the pond.

We stood guard until dark.
No Frog Children came.

“Oh, well!” with a shrug and she flit back through
our wooden kitchen door, swallowed up
by the inky hall to her bedroom.

Tomorrow will percolate new mysteries for us
in our garden of bell jars, tomatoes, and steam.

 

Author’s Note:

This poem is from hour 14 of the 24 Hour Poetry Marathon. The prompt was as follows:

Write a poem that contains at least five of the following ten words. Feel free to include all ten if you wish: Frogs, Evening, Tomatoes, Jars, Raincoat, Steam, Peculating (Which I read as “percolating” by accident after fourteen hours of writing,) , Children, Elbow (Which I changed to arm in the final draft. ), Mystery.

First Frost

It began with the full moon, a Super Moon
someone named it, as if it wore a cape.
Invincible of all except for one solitary
element alone in the evening sky.

For days its light spread over houses,
draped across trees, reflected on pools
of onyx glass throwing its smile back into
the heavens.

Then rains began to fall. A mist mixed
with low slung cloud. A thick swirl rolling
down hills, filling space where summer
sun once nested.

Now full bloom gardens bulging with
rainbow hues and verdant greens of every
shade will bow and curl under icy breath
this callow autumn eve.

A blanket wraps round my shoulders,
I would it be your arms. The quiet sigh
of first frost fills my ears, I wish it your
whispered words just for me to hear.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

It’s September 11 and it’s cold outside. Really cold. It will frost tonight and we may get a light snow. The mountains will definitely see snow. Crazy weather. It’s too early for snow. Or at least we always thought so.

Here is a photo of the last harvest of my garden. Saying goodbye to my treasured friends until next year.

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