Onions in gold shrouds,
bulbous buttercup squash
lie silent in the shed.
Garden beds have been cleared
of tomatoes, peppers, beans,
produce canned, frozen, dried
to feed us this winter.
 
I milk morning glory husks,
save the hard, black seeds,
let some fall on purpose—
a guarantee of blooms next year.
Hollyhocks hold their future
in strange round bins
reminiscent of UFOs.
They fly everywhere in a mass campaign
to propagate whatever planet they land on.
 
I’d like to forget about growing food,
live the rest of my life surrounded
by tall spires of pink petticoats
flirting with the sun.


© by Jan Chronister.
Used with the author’s permission.