Every spring I gather the plants
like a hen hovering over her chicks.
All they want is some damp soil
and a lot of warm sunshine, but
they didn’t grow wild among redwoods,
and they’re a little dismayed at
how shy the sun appears to be up here.
He looks down aslant on them,
peering between the tall trees
like a lovesick boy at the prom queen.
What they would like is for him
to come out and openly declare
his passion for ripe, juicy tomatoes.
This article appears in Bankers’ Lunch: Second Course.