Even then there is one more matter
of not knowing: among the wrinkled
pods pushed into the soil, which
will tendril into vine, and which
burrow into loamy forgetting.
Luisa A. Igloria, “Obscurity”
We have saved the seeds
from the one poblano pepper
that the season gave us.
We plant them in pots,
but the seedlings that poke
through the soil
soon reveal themselves to be weeds.
The herbs that should take over
the yard do not. The mint withers,
and the basil falls prey to the bacteria
that spots the leaves to inedibility.
Meanwhile, in the front flower box,
among the dead petunias, an exuberant
tomato plant pushes toward the sun.
Where did it come from?
A polluted potting mix?
A rotting tomato chucked into the compost,
seeds sprouting in the dark unknown?
We eat our tomato sandwiches,
the only harvest from the season’s spoils.
No sandwich ever tasted better,
the only one from this year’s garden.