The Garden of Late
The garden is choked with grasses.
Tomato vines sag spent and grey,
and forgotten fruit composts into potential.
Vetch twines around long-sprouted asparagus
that stands among the conclave of weeds.
I stall, outwaiting rime and snow;
these days I prefer such decisions
be made for me. The plot
is too tangled and early rains
seem a rational excuse for avoidance.
December 20, 2000
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