Dead Peppers

Another poem which I’m planning to place in the book Letters from the Garden.  

 

I walked into the garden through rows of tomatoes.

Bees dancing through pollen quarries, the soil alive

with each dying breath of silk-green leaves like

chloro-lungs, playing with the air.

Islands of peppers and cucumbers content

in their soils, hungry for abundant growth

And quenched with the loving waters of a

Python hose or white clouds, which forbade darkness

And only reveal sunlight and better days.

 

But this was yesterday.

 

Today, rows of tomatoes clench onto their cages

As if climbing through the tops to escape starvation.

Roots wither and dry as the soil crackles and leaves

Its children to die.

Islands become planes as desolate wastelands become

All that is left of a lost garden.

I hold onto the weeds that strangle the any life

That had once been left in this place. But the fields of

Dead peppers finally gasp for breath and fade to gray

Like the rifle smoke which stains the empty walls

Leaving us with nothingness.

 

What is Tomorrow?

 

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