Ripe

by Harry Youtt

The vined tomato begins at last
its crimsoning down into color, deeper and finer,
no longer that green-to-fire-engine-red way

it used to have – of trying to seem
all-grown-up – ready too soon.

But now, with a skin-split-yearning to be devoured,
on the verge of having fallen to the dusty ground, yet
stem-clinging by force of its own will – to be perfect.
Praying for discovery. Now! Only now!

Before this, it was too early.