November
I pick the last cherry tomatoes
from their brown, withered vines.
How have the chipmunks missed
these red globes on this frosted morning
A handful--enough for me to pull
off my glove and pluck fruit from the branch.
I'm not a gardener, can't tell a sucker
from stem, but today after raking
the last leaves from the silver maple,
I want to honor all endings---the cycles
and season--with a bit of lettuce, tomato,
sunflower seeds, the drizzle of dressing
as chickadees hunt and peck beneath the feeder
tasting whatever sweetness
still remains in the world.