autophage - poetry - tomatoes

Last year we grew tomatoes. They grew, they fruited, they tasted good. I guess they died, but I do not recall. This year we grew tomatoes. This year before I could plant them I bought good soil,    And spread it on the ground       And mixed in sand to loosen          The dense Virginia clay             Which does not drain well. This year we grew tomatoes. This year as I planted them My neighbor,    Who does not speak English,       Came over and planted some tomatoes          And something I did not recognize             Which turned out to be eggplant. This year there was a plague. This year we stayed home I worked from the basement    And every day over the summer       I ate lunch outside in the sun          And I contemplated the garden             Basil, mint, squash,             foxglove, eggplant,             and the tomatoes. This year we grew tomatoes. This year I watched the flowers plumpen into fruit. I watered them the correct amount,    I staked them when they grew too tall,       And, when taller still, I caged them.          I tickled the flowers to help pollinate.             I smelled the sharp smell of green leaves. I should mention: I have a mild phobia of plant matter. So all this garden stuff has a tinge of terror:    Of life whose intelligence we cannot comprehend,       Of life whose consent we cannot negotiate,          Of plump fruit, delicious on one side             And, when you turn it over, rotting. This year we grew tomatoes. This year I learned that there are two kinds of tomato: Determinate, and indeterminate.    One produces all its fruit at once       And the other produces its fruit continuously throughout the season.          I do not remember which is which             But maybe next year I will. This year we grew tomatoes. This year I harvested some: My hands tentatively reaching through the web of vines.    But mostly my partner       Who is a better harvester          (And who has no fear of plants)             Gathered them. This year we grew tomatoes. This year hot temperatures persisted deep into the autumn. Tomatoes will not ripen above eighty-six degrees.    And so our tomato harvest was late       And now in late November,          We have a big bowl of green tomatoes             Ripening in the kitchen. This year, before the first frost, My partner harvested the last tomatoes And I knew the time had come to kill them.    To return their stalks, leaves, and flowers       To the ground that had nurtured them          To be good soil             For other plants someday.       To volunteer their seeds          From windfall fruit             To become next year's crop. I knew all this, but I still wept. Last year we grew tomatoes. But this year the tomatoes taught me. This year we grew tomatoes And this year    I learned to listen       Through my fear          To the voiceless voice             Of the tomatoes.