Oda Al Tomate

The street
filled with tomatoes,
noon,
summer,
the light
splits
in two
halves
of tomato,
juice
runs
through the streets.
In December
the tomato
unleashes,
invades
the kitchens,
enters through lunches
decides
to rest
on the shelves,
among the glasses,
butter dishes,
blue salt shakers.
It has
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately,
we must murder it:
the knife sinks
into its living pulp,
it's a red
viscera,
a fresh
sun,
deep,
unending,
fills the salads
of Chile,
happily marries
with the clear onion,
and to celebrate
it lets
fall
oil,
essential child of the olive,
on its half-open hemispheres,
adds
pepper
its fragrance,
salt its magnetism:
these are the weddings
of the day,
parsley
raises
little flags,
potatoes
boil vigorously,
the roast
knocks
with its aroma
at the door,
it's time!
let's go!
and on
the table, in the waist
of summer,
the tomato,
earthly star
repeated
and fertile,
shows us
its convolutions,
its channels,
the distinguished fullness
and the abundance
without bone,
without shell,
without scales or thorns,
it delivers
the gift
of its fiery color
and the entirety of its freshness.