Our Garden (a Poem)

We grow weeds among flowers,
betrayers of green-sap warmth…
an ice age by degrees. Vegetables

never reach the hot-tub pot to perish
in nutritional bliss. They struggle beneath
a shady sun. We turn away, overgrown

and outwitted, our black thumbs rest
on our fist-tops… carrots as spindly
as our love. We can resuscitate neither.