Our lower backs burned in the sun
As we bent low to pluck tomatoes
Holding really ripe ones delicately.
If you drop them
They split and spill fluid
Like a cracked head.
Remember the earlier light?
It was warm on our necks
As we tugged red berries
From the bush and churned the dirt
Where the peas grew thick
On the garden fence.
I dreamt I was born into a violet light,
The color of the sky on the porch
At 8 p.m. in June.
That light settles in like a dog
In it’s favorite chair, the cicadas
Are not yet humming but will soon
We brought the buckets
Inside and washed the product
Of our work in the sink.
We watched the sun set
On the porch at dusk.
We kissed the raspberries
Until our lips stained red.