August Tomatoes by Don Ziegler
Having cycled a zillion years
I need to pinch myself.
Am I in heaven?
Or have I really returned
Into the summer fields of Lancaster County?
Over my head in sweet corn.
Butter, salt on the skin of my chin.
Down breeze of sun dried alfalfa.
How can I tell them?
The way muskmelon melts under the nose.
The roar of August tomatoes.
How Katydids hammer the oak trees at night.
How the cicada spirals my body outward
Singing me back to the Light.