Evenings, I sit alone
and watch my garden
crowd and tangle.
Plums form, green and small,
hard enough to break a window.
They will ripen into sweetness
but won’t lose their astringent origins.
Beyond them, brightness flares
on the pomegranate bush
and will become something
to be trampled, or fruits to pick
when this year turns away.
The insides will be jeweled,
seeds so deeply red, they’re nearly black.
How many flowers drop,
brown and wasted, before one fruit
manages to form?
Wild poppies wander, garish
and unbidden, up my hillside,
and verbascum scatters from plants
placed carefully and long ago.
Soon, green spires will rise
and their tiny blossoms blink open,
glowing faint and yellow,
here and there against the dark.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.
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