It is in the way the fruit blossoms forth from a spent flower, in the things not said, the way the sun stays a careful distance from the flesh.
Still, the fruit grows round and turgid, the vine reaches out, thickens, blessed by the heat.
It is in the silences that pass between.
Separated by millions of miles, yet influencing the daily habits of shadows, nightly dreams.
When tomatoes sleep what conjurings occur?