The ground breaks
The black soil
Burying the grass
Like the flip
Of a pancake
The rototiller digs
Shaking my shoulders
Like a 60s dance
The plot having rested
From September
Through the long winter
Holds stubborn
As if to deny my ambition
In my mind
I see hills of tomato plants
Heavy with fruit
The rich red
Announcing their readiness
For salads
For sauces
The perfect addition
To a sandwich
But the time
Between the planting
And the harvesting
Will test my patience
The curse of a man boy
Checking each day
For the progress
The worry
That some rabbit
Will feast
On my future delight
It is a torture
To anticipate
To almost taste
The sweetness
And the slight sour
That comes
With the end of summer
