Cherokee Purples by Sarah Russell

There’s melancholy in picking
the last of these heirlooms
before first frost. The May potential

of seedlings. Yellow blossoms,
then tiny green fruits, hard as marbles,
in July. Deep red beauties, bending stalks

under their weight, radiant and tender
to the touch in August and September,
harvested in threes and fours, starring

in salads, roasted with garlic, eaten
like apples. This small bounty—triumph
of urban farmers who nurture, stake,

feed, and brag about their crop
outgrowing cages to sprawl
across the neighbor’s fence. Oh, the pride

in sharing one or two with friends
who didn’t grow their own this year.
And finally in October, the wistful goodbye

to a generous friend whose final gifts
grace a windowsill to ripen, seeds salvaged
for spring planting.



Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net