Two raised beds, one with cherry tomatoes
and peppers, the other gone wild, abounding
with weeds, a failed organic compost
of wood shavings, food scraps, coffee grounds.

In the plastic faux whiskey barrel halves
a crowd of pungent mint, the other has
a strawberry struggling to adapt.
Nosy dogs, dandelion fur, causes

for my concern, leaves wilt, soil dries, stems bend,
not a question of will squirrels come for 
the ripening fruit, take single bites, but when.
The earth spins on and on, hour after hour.

There’s so much to worry about each day
when in the end one has so little say.