garden poem

The tomato plant
has toppled over in the garden.
Red fruit and green vine stretch out,
the plant
barely hiding it’s delight
in being set free
from the reign of bamboo stakes and twine.
I now have to straddle it
and contort my body in strange ways,
to harvest the flashes of sunshine,
but I don’t mind.
The fertility doctor told me
not to do any “housework”
but I couldn’t resist.
It’s not in the house anyway,
and I wanted to feed my soul
along with yours, little hopeful one,
with a tomato
that I grew
in my own garden.