The Mood of an Ode

Autumn can be a trying time of year for me.  While I love the colors and the return to cooler temperatures, the quality of light changes, and it triggers something dark in me.  In times of trouble, odes, at least in the style of Pablo Neruda, are a kind of therapy, a meditation on the beauty and joy in small ordinary things. Either the reading or writing of them can lift my mood.

Harvest time is in full swing, and one by one, sections of the garden are being put to bed.  The peas, such as they were, are done, basil is thoroughly pesto-ed, and the squirrels have already taken the hazelnuts.  Now is the time for tomatoes and the marathon in the kitchen.

Ode to a Bushel of Tomatoes

I do not mind

the aching back

and the heft of the box,

nor the hovering fruit flies

and the steam and sweat of the kitchen -

for your aroma rises

and fills my senses-

fruit of somber red,

flower of umber earth.

Do you feel the press of my thumb,

the assertive stroke of the knife

through velvety flesh

as I bid you sleep?

Are you soothed by

the heat of your seething juices?

Do you hear the rattling of your neighbors

in the roil of the water?

When you cool and slumber,

I will hide you away

on a dark shelf

out of sight, but never out of mind -

for each time I reach for you

and pry open your seal with a pop,

I will smell you

sighing sunshine

into a cold, bleak day.