Fallow

The morning glory is a beautiful throat-cutter,

winding its green wire

around the necks of the beefsteaks.

I meant to come out here with shears

weeks ago, when the air was still soft.

Instead, I let the dirt go hard as a brick.

The vines are skeletal now,

rattling like dry bones in the wind.

I found one fruit,

a shriveled green marble,

hollowed out by something that was hungrier

than I was.