An unripe tomato sits on my window sill
a green globe, tight as a fist
clenched around nothing
but the warmth of the sun.
It craves to be split open,
to feel the knife’s sharp touch,
wants juice to run like a secret
down the wrist of the eater.
All day it leans into heat,
offering its unripe belly
to the blue sky’s yellow star,
and prays for the ache of ripeness.
This is how I wait for you:
hard and hopeful,
blushing from the inside out,
aching to be consumed.
Hi,
You have a talent in comparign the nature of someone with tomato. Very great peotry i see in the poem.
Have a good day
Jessy Jacob
Thank you🙏🙏
Cleverly penned, Peter. Another excellent write with delicate layers my friend. Amazing read as always. Appreciate you.
Damian
Painfully sweet and the hopeful part had me smiling. Excellant
Thanks Damien and Fia for reading and commenting……I do love tomatoes and I’m sure you do also.🍎
There’s a damn clean erotic metaphor here, with the unripe tomato carrying desire in its tension—green, clenched, sun-warmed, and waiting for the moment when restraint finally gives way. The ending lands hard because “hard and hopeful” collapses the whole image back into the speaker, turning ripeness into both longing and surrender.