Red tomatoes on toast.
Brown-berried bread.
Fresh tomatoes gathered from a garden
in the shade, near our shed.
Here the tomatoes climbed, grew skyward
up a home-made ladder.
In the morning, hot-buttered, fragrant-sweet,
I ate breakfast from a blue cat platter...
the way the Welsh would make their toast,
I would make my own.
Then frappucino with canned milk
heavy with foam.
With crickets for my company,
and the powerlines humming.
an early morning symphony all August long.
Blackbird sentrys in golden fields of durham wheat strumming
and squacking,a familiar dawn song.