" Book of Tomatoes "
She will not believe her
diagnosis. She does not look
sick. If he ignores it then it will
go away. It's just an excuse
not to work. He turns hard
soil with shovel and rake,
she plants vegetable seeds.
One digs holes, the other
buries. Tomato seedlings
set, the weather turns
miracle cure, no quick
fix in a pill, only time
he cannot spare. The clock
of his priorities runs
dry, the earth parched
with discontent. Fatigued,
she cannot tend the garden.
Angry, he will not carry
buckets from the creek.
Growth is stunted,
pale. Irritable she only sleeps
or writes poetry. There
is no money in that. She can't
be in that much pain. Frustrated,
the virus spreads from lack
of empathy. She cannot heal
under the burden of his
disapproval. He will not sturdy
the tomato plants. Blossom ends
rot, leaves wither
forgiveness. These fears
he needs to learn to accept,
admit he cannot control. He must
tend to the tomatoes.
© 2004 Kathy Paupore
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