in the garden

i did not plant tomatoes this summer; i think this is what disturbs me the most.
steaming hot, fresh from the garden – from my hand – there were no
     sweet tart rounds to offer you.
these ninety days marked a darkness of soul, a peculiarity in spirit entwined
     by weedy roots that conquered the raised bed.
now i may not forage to find sun, wind, rain, soil contained in an imperfect late season
     globe.

i’m guilty of non-planting.

i await my sentence.
a holy requirement willfully ignored deprived us of our expected
     caprese and fried greens –

i am to blame.
heirlooms – glorious in rainbows – did not stretch out branches.
     no cherries or grapes
          to pop
     in the children’s mouths 
     when
     they visited.
a wondering wandering spring gave way to narrow doubt and clouded vision.

                         i failed.
this nightshade is not malleable – smashed to the floor, a bruise, a burst – unhealed,
     unhealable.
water soaked days and the fruit may have proved plump and pleasurable.
     no keeping corner for the unrooted – is it lost if i never had it?
i have burgled time of its rightful offspring,
                         too late thoughts require absolution that will
     never come.