I’ve avoided
the garden.
Its disorder and
chaos reproach me. 

Yellowing leaves,
fallen branches, 
overgrown weeds,
reminders of my neglect.

But today I yielded,
drawn  by the
scarlet peeking out
from green weeds

yellow pear tomatoes
showing off their gold,
shy peppers hiding
with the squash.

I pull the tiny
scarlet orbs from
bent stems,
careful not to squeeze.

No basket at hand
I stuff the gleanings
into the hem of my shirt
staining with their juice.

I hear the hawk
screeching overhead.
The harvest does not
interest him.

He’s waiting for
stupid fat doves.