What is lost when words are wasted?
What is trust when tomatoes are wasted?
What is truth?
Men, words, hours, waist?
When wait women.
What is lost when haste is made?
That is tossed, is left us that linger, aside.
What is lust?
What is frost, but sitting on the wooden cutting board.
Tomatoes alone can make watermelons explode.
What is lost when marred?
Who is flawless?
Light plus dust in the evening.
What this must when hardships are wasted.
That is laughing when our last even thing plays out.
What is prehnite?
That is green tomato healing, fried good tonight.
What is lost when words are tasted?
This poem is dedicated to TM Burns.
Image: Seafoam-green botryoidal prehnite speckled with small epidote xstals from Mali. Vale Gallery, Museum of Nature, Ottawa, Canada. Credit: Mike Beauregard via Flickr.