Only the parsley
still grows. Beside it,
the tall, brittle stems
of blackened basil.
Behind it, limp leaves
of green and red
chard splayed on the dirt
like empty hands.
Along the fence,
brown stalks
of sunflowers,
taller than my head.
Dead. This is what
the cold does.
It takes it all away.
I crouch beside
the green parsley
and remind myself
to be warm with you,
tell myself
it is not too late,
that sometimes,
against the odds,
despite these cold,
cold nights, something
green and fresh survives.