There is smoke in the air when I go pick them.

I go despite panic, also because inside I’ll make chutney.

For an hour or so, I unlatch them. It is late fall. They will not ripen.

Firm pale green skins, fine-coated in ash.

Our fire season goes all autumn now, though today’s fire is not

yet near to us. But the green tomatoes: I love their pale lobes.

Tonight, god-willing, we will fry some with cornmeal & fish.

Inside the air purifier whirs: I will boil them with molasses & raisin.

Jar them for friends & the winter. Disaster, we say, meaning bad star.

These are good green stars, this is also their season.

Mask on, I bend & bend to the vine: I bend & salvage what I can.