Today I wrote a paper about a Spanish poem called "Ode al Tomate", or Ode to the Tomato. It's a beautiful poem, filled with fabulous metaphors, wonderful similes, and creative comparisons....and it's all about a simple little tomato. As I was reading it, I felt God whisper to my heart that all of life should be filled with as many wonders as the author found in this simple tomato. Psalm 46:10 says to "be still, and know that I am God;" Matthew 6:28 says to "consider the lilies of the field;" John 10:10 says that Jesus came so that "we might have life in abundance. How can I complain about cold, rainy weather when I'm faced with poems and verses like this? Think of all the wonder I could find in the rain, if I chose to let God show me. God's creation is so full of wonder it's unbelievable. All He wants us to do is slow down and let Him take us on a tour. So I challenge you, when you are overwhelmed by life, slow down, stop and smell the roses (or the lilies of the field), and let God romance and comfort you with His wonders all around you. I can guarantee you that you won't regret it.
Ode to the Tomato
The street filled with tomatoes
midday, summer,
light is halved like a tomato,
its juice runs through the streets.
In December, unabated,
the tomato invades the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes its ease on countertops,
among glasses, butter dishes, blue saltcellars.
It sheds its own light, benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must assassinate it:
the knife sinks into living flesh,
red viscera, a cool sun,
profound, inexhausible,
populates the salads of Chile,
happily, it is wed to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we pour oil, essential child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper adds its fragrance, salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding of the day,
parsley hoists its flag, potatoes bubble vigorously,
the aroma of the roast knocks at the door,
it's time! come!
and, on the table, at the midpoint of summer,
the tomato, star of earth,
recurrent and fertile star,
displays its convolutions, its canals,
its remarkable amplitude and abundance,
no pit, no husk, no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers its gift of fiery color
and the totality of its freshness.
midday, summer,
light is halved like a tomato,
its juice runs through the streets.
In December, unabated,
the tomato invades the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes its ease on countertops,
among glasses, butter dishes, blue saltcellars.
It sheds its own light, benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must assassinate it:
the knife sinks into living flesh,
red viscera, a cool sun,
profound, inexhausible,
populates the salads of Chile,
happily, it is wed to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we pour oil, essential child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper adds its fragrance, salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding of the day,
parsley hoists its flag, potatoes bubble vigorously,
the aroma of the roast knocks at the door,
it's time! come!
and, on the table, at the midpoint of summer,
the tomato, star of earth,
recurrent and fertile star,
displays its convolutions, its canals,
its remarkable amplitude and abundance,
no pit, no husk, no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers its gift of fiery color
and the totality of its freshness.
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