First Frost

Tomato soldiers refuse to quit.

Yellow, trying to force red

They cling to the vine while the plant's leaves are turning pale.

Other leaves caress the grass and bare soil below

Quitting, dying, but decorating the ground in a lavish performance

That goes on for weeks.

We look on the beauty,

Yet we chase them off the stage with rakes and loud blowing machines.

Squirrels frantically bolt from nut to nut, filling their mouthpacks

With provisions for winter.

If they can ever find what they bury.

How do they do that?

Birds don's seem so anxious.

Some just leave for warmer places. Others

Stay, and patiently find seeds and something, anything

In the ground to eat.

It will get too cold tonight. The cold

That kills.

Signaling tomatoes that their fight is over.

Just quit. Die.

Let someone pluck you, whatever color you are.

You won't resist.

But you will give your best to our mouths

As we cut you and savor

The last of summer's harvest.