Summer tomato crop

I walk through the door
At end of day
And immediately glance
Out the large bay window
In our kitchen
And inspect the tomatoes
Growing in a hanging pot
From the wooden superstructure
Which hovers over our patio.

I see the green fruit are turning orange,
Reflecting the ceaseless movement of life,
And recognize the promise of sustenance
But at that moment, I also trace
Within that soft, warm touch of comfort
The dark tapestry of generations,
Even an odd wisp of immortality,
Providing sweet memories at the dying of the day.