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