THE PLOT

The fresh tomatoes have come and gone,
Some have fallen to the ground
And been covered by the quick, black ants.
Some have been plucked and slightly squeezed,
Watered and cleaned with great care
And brushed into lonely salads.
Some have been mashed and pureed,
Thickened with sugar and onion,
And changed into new, brown ketchup.
A few have been borrowed
By the neighbors across the street,
Looking for free vegetables for the cool pantry.
The garden is bare and sullen now,
Only dead words hang on the vines
And silence strolls through the rows.
The dirt has no smell or taste,
Like sesame left in water too long,
And the branches offer no screen
From the deepening light.