The green tomatoes are coming true, slowly, slowly.
On a vine, on a wire.
And all they do to ripen, inspire,
is calmly claim the sun.
The hope of pumpkins is coming true, slowly, slowly.
The yellow leaves
await the bees-
Swift magic for the orange plum.
The harvest days are coming true, slowly, slowly.
A ferocious peace has been relayed.
The ground is solid beneath the blade.
Seed and grief became as one.