On the brink of turning.
Sending forth their most pungent perfume
just before death.
The colors brilliant,
the purples of royalty
the oranges and reds of a smoggy summer sunset.
skins just beginning to sag away from flesh,
lined with wrinkles of a chest
seen too much sun.
Gently cut with a tomato knife
juices and peels intact
tossed with citrus
and a shake of an herby Elixer hauled home from Chateauneuf du Pape.
Pastry dough, pasta frolla
from a Sicilian cookbook,
its unadorned pages as authentic as the isle itself.
Sweet butter, flour, sugar, lemon peel, eggs.
An old nonna in her white housedress pocked with kitchen stains
adds a final pinch of sugar
to caramelize the first of summer’s