Hurricane          &             Old Tomatoes
by  Laura Burkhart

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                   Hurricane


Before this autumn wind
Even the shadows of the mountains
Shudder and tremble.
— Issa

I wake to that kind of solemn sky 
pale premonition of snow
low hanging clouds that brood 

Like a prairie farmer kept too long 
indoors by blizzards. Here 
mynah birds order each other around

in preparation until all I hear 
is wind that rattles even these 
earthquake-proof timbers 

and I imagine the ocean 
spitting waves onto the shore
watch them climb the rocks 

spill over land to meet 
water flooding from the sky.
This one called Douglas whips 

branches from bamboo screams 
through palm fronds fury forgets 
the source of all its rage. Lest we take 

for granted this fragile potent earth 
it could sweep us off its surface 
hand brushing a mosquito from its face.

Like a persistent toothache 
in a dream the wind batters 
rain into red Kohala earth

memory of volcano  
the sun a distant past like the corner 
of a first-grader’s drawing. 

In Puna earlier this year
we walked to hot tubs heated
over steam vents and felt 

the warmth of lava flowing 
only three hundred feet 
beneath our bare soles.

I’m saying that the earth is not
to be trifled with 
that it can be a pressure cooker 

left untended for too long 
that it sends us these reminders
to recollect our place in the larger 

scheme of time and space. Today 
we are three little pigs 
huddled in our huts of straw and sticks

hoping that the bricks will hold
praying for protection from our foolishness
while we embrace our human folly.

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​  Old Tomatoes 


The vine wraps itself around my arm
 while that aroma, Proustian, 

carries me back to fall on the farm. 
Where did she find the boxes to fill with 

vine-ripened fruit, her back aching at the end 
of the day and she, only in her twenties? 

When she returned from birthing the youngest 
the kitchen floor had sprouted a new pattern 

of boxes spilled over with tomatoes 
that cried for her care while waiting 

for the juicer, Mason jars, canner, freezer, 
and she, with none to give, burst into tears.

He told her she should be grateful for god’s 
bounty, no acknowledgement of partnership 

(her hard work, a nod from god). His mom 
was right: he should have been a priest.

Decades later, the youngest with a garden 
of her own, I water and pick ripe tomatoes 

from only one plant. It’s all I need, even if 
I include the dog who loves those cherry heirlooms.

This morning while bathed in that ancient 
scent, it occurred to me that often she disliked 

him. It was best they went their separate ways 
before they made life worse for each other and 

the children. Toward the end he’d crack 
a beer at 10:00 am and stare at her 

with puppy-dog eyes. Even though she 
believed she was the cause—you’d drink too…

even then, young as she was 
she let him be the martyr.
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