Its tomato tying time
all the time these blazing
days. The heat acts the same
on the plants as me when I see
my lover, me reaching for her
like a vine seeking a cage
to climb, and if the ‘mater
is an analogue for me, maybe
it’s too urgent, because
it’s exuberance requires
cutting back the excess
that produces no fruit.

The rain, too, has fed
this gravid thing with
illusions that more is better
when really, more is just more
to cut back, more to decide
what to do with. I think
the plant dreams of its mother
seed – suspended in the wet
jelly of the host – and wishes
to return to that state, free
and waiting for the time
to remake itself
in its own image.