The garden is forgotten
in November’s thin light. Shadows yawn
sad and I am surrounded by things we
covet, yet forget:
sunflowers, a tomato’s full curve, the snap
of carrots — wilted from a rigored season.
Now tomatoes lie bruised, sunflowers quiet
and leggy. Even the crabgrass is worn with
effort. Something inside me swells in
this frail autumn glow. I don’t know if
it is fatigue or forever.