Perched in my garden at gloaming on an overturned
five-gallon bucket the heat of summer sun departed,
smelling tomatoes and peppers, listening to corn grow,
a snail plods towards the Kohlrabi; I let him a pass
in this halcyon evening.
There is something about gardens at the end of day
when the gardener’s work is done; I note the weeds
encroaching on the peas but save the pulling
for another day.
A butterfly lopes and lights on the broccoli, the cat
brushing himself against my leg, pauses to observe
the insect’s flight; his tail flicks but his chasing,
like my weeding, is done for the day.
While every year we put up our beets and tomatoes,
winter the carrots and potatoes, this garden’s yield
is not measured in produce, but in nights like these
perched on overturned five gallon buckets.