Before the Frost
I stopped watering the tomato plants
sometime in September. Here it is
November and they still wring from the soil
condensation, cat pee, the odd drop of rain.
They reach for the last scraps of sun
I know death is a degree away. They,
in their oblivion, hold out the hard
and small green fruit of hope.
- -- Lorri Smith (12/98)
(from ancient days of rec.arts.poems, probably,
but definitely stored on my quiescent poetry page)
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