Heirloom

It’s a lovely business this patch of earth

to grow tomatoes in, one proofed for light,

the sun rises above my home and hearth,

all afternoon the angled window’s bright.

I’ve chosen to spend these remaining days

of spring and all through summer’s blast furnace

watering, amending this vein of clay,

picking off hornworms, treating for aphids.

Sunday morning church bells call faithful in,

find me gloved and pruning, weeding, searching

clear sky for literate clouds inked with rain,

scattering food, tying yearning limbs

to the skeleton of a tomato cage,

tossing shovels of dirt on winter's grave.