Summer is gone, Autumn's final crop hangs;
Browning leaves, drooping low to the ground.
The tomato I picked is still full of summer's flavor;
As these delightful remnants of summer hang.
Today could be the end of the gathering time;
As the weatherman speaks of our first frost.
A cloudless night, wind laying low, moon is bright;
A chill greets me as I go outside after dark.
With flashlight in hand, I pick those last remaining
Not fully ripe tomatoes, the last taste of summer.
I'll take them inside, and set them in the window;
As it appears tonight will be the season's first frost.
I look at the dozen or so remaining juicy memories
Of this past summer and I feel a smile cross my face.
That connection to the season and fresh tomatoes
Runs deep within my soul and childhood memories.
Forever linked, those last tomatoes of the season;
Gathering the remaining ones before the first frost.
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