The last of my tomatoes are in a basket
I keep in the corner of my kitchen shelf.
I can’t remember when I picked them
But there are much too many to eat myself.
All summer long the crop was good -
Each vine strained hard against its stake.
There was more than enough for just one man
With plenty left after what the wildlife would take.
I tended to each from seed to seedling,
And saw each mature to a full-fledged vine.
From little green spheres to red ripe tomatoes
I blushed with pride knowing these were mine.
Yet these remaining tomatoes are a curious sight,
In fact they are rather an ugly scene.
I think I have kept them much too long
Because they are once again turning green.