All summer long, the tomatoes
were a disappointment. They drooped
in their cages, leaves crisping at the edges.
Some carried green globes that refused
to ripen, or split skins that smelled of decay.
Only a few Brandywines. No Romas, no Early Girls.
Now it is October, and the garden is dead.
I grasp withered stems, yank plants out
as if they are evils to be crushed.
I whack root balls against the wooden planter,
naming catastrophes: Wildfires. Sickness.
Hunger; hurl each onto the compost pile.
I’ve grown too familiar with disaster.
Clenched against the wind, I turn toward home,
and glowing amid the heap of yard debris
I see survivors. Four Golden Sunrise, small orbs
that all fit in the palm of my hand. I rub them
on my jeans. Their blood in my mouth tastes sweet.
