Heavy head

They stood in a line, what was left

of the garden.

Stiff stalks, brown and brittle,

like old men who'd seen too much.

Their faces, once bright disks,

now dark, concave.

Heavy heads, tilted to the dirt,

emptied of sun.

A spent honeycomb of seeds,

some clinging, some gone to the ground.

No longer tracking the light.

Just waiting for the snap,

the final fall.