A Tiny Garden
See what I’ve done with
my fingers, my hands, with the
sun. I selected you. Stood your
legs deep inside dark and loamy smells, unfurled
your petals into the breeze.
You answered with your bodies,
swelling into green, budding, giving things,
fixing my mouth, my eyes into
~ Auburn McCanta
If you should happen by my garden in the next several days, please don’t mention to Mr. Tomato that his days are numbered. And for goodness sake, don’t let Miss Rose know that her ruffled skirt is beginning to wilt. They are both such proud animals. I’d hate to have them squander their full potential as a future dinner pairing — Mr. Tomato as a southern fried green dish and Miss Rose as a daringly orange table decoration.
Thanks in advance for your discretion in this delicate matter.
With any hint of such a fate awaiting him, I’m sure Mr. Tomato will insist that he is really a Love Apple, and that Love Apples are deadly poisonous!
Excellent idea, Dave. Up to now, we’ve been quietly whispering about the fate of Mr. Tomato. We’ll loudly proclaim him deadly poisonous and see, then, if he’ll rise to the bait and pronounce himself as delicious and desirable.
You are one step ahead of me! I figured he’d come up with the “LOVE APPLE” angle, all on his own!