Tomato and Cucumber: The Gifts of Plowing
This poem falls in the erotic realm of my poetry fevers. And perhaps with winter approaching, it’s not too early to be thinking about spring and summer and all the delights thereof that await men and women who work the land and who know from experience that life can be delicious.
Tomato and Cucumber: The Gifts of Plowing
Preparing garden earth in a clear space for the sun is animus — an instinct for the sensual as rich as a sweaty back in spring, and rough as your grasping hands that keep a primal truth to never foreswear the promised taste of love to be found in fresh cucumbers, and a ripe tomato. Perhaps, so much more the red tomato as desire to hold that fruit for her in mid-July when she never bothers to dress except in shorts and halter top, and no shoes to cover her toes.
Summer is the time when she stands transfixed at the cottage window thinking of nothing but the gifts of love you bring to her — a cucumber for her skin, and a red tomato ripe with juice and flavor for her tongue — the loving favors you always hold as you tremble, looking to her feet as you worship the toe, that like a phallus, always rises.
Original poem by Ed Cockrell, November 28, 2020 (All Rights Reserved)
