There is a tomato I have grown, the great white, circumference perhaps four inches, color a yellow so pale you can almost see your face upon its skin. And when you slice and eat of it, then you know what greatness truly is. I am dreaming tomatoes these days, their colors range from the deepest purple, almost black to infinity red to the nearly white. One has to dream, doesn’t one, when the flimflam comes to town. Such an adoring crowd. During a pandemic no less. Yes, it seems one must be a dreamer, here in the mitten where dreams can be hard to find and collective mania finds so many fans. Behind every man who would be king there is a woman weeping, slicing tomatoes and weeping.
poetry I have written
Anne's mediocre poetry 