from his garden

his tomatoes were in.
large and red,
ripe, ready to be plucked
from the vine.
his small square of yard
beside the air conditioning
unit, next to the patio
was loosely fenced
to keep the rabbits out.
they were thick and round,
hardly one still green.
all grown from seed,
by hand, his hands
in the dry earth on his
bended knees.
he filled a paper bag
to give me.
to carry home in the car,
three hundred
miles away,
a dozen or more tomatoes
most you'd never
eat, but it was an act
of love and kindness,
attrition perhaps
for so much of the past,
things better left
unsaid. this was enough
i thought, as he stood
in the parking lot
and waved farewell.