Guilt finds the seeds and buries them in April,
hiding them darkly so no one will see.
He waters them secretly.
The sun does what the sun will do.
The seeds sprout and he thins them,
unwilling to pluck them all,
unwitting that the ones that remain
grow stronger.
Desire brings fertilizer, tends to the leaves.
Her ladybugs devour aphid filigrees.
She talks to the greens.
In September she builds waterwalls
to shelter the near-ripened fruit.
She offers to share her tomatoes with you.
Take a bite, she says, her voice like sun.
You can’t stop with just one.