Tuesday, November 13, 2012


(c) Steve King 2012
All rights reserved

The first chore in the morning
was to gather our tomatoes.
Night bestowed new color:
each fruit in waiting
blushed in its awakening,
yielding easy to the hand.

Footprints in heavy dew
attended on my solitude,
and I would smile
imagining that one had followed:

Something like a dream,
to find a way
through the in-between
of starshine and dawn.
There is a poet’s word
for that kind of light,
but needless—
I had already seen.

And I would linger,
waiting while you dreamed,
pausing in my pleasantries,
harvesting the fruits of morning light,
while you clung to our shadows,
cleaving to the bounty of the night.