“The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes”
I mistakenly thought was fiction
and I planted this year’s pear tomato
with blithely naïve predilection.
Egad, it grew like Jack’s beanstalk
like some overpowering addiction
forcing the zinnias and chives
to bent and yellowed eviction.
Even the pots on the deck
are muttering gruff malediction —
who knew one little tomato
could become such rabid affliction?
When you’ve decked your deck with autumn hues
of scarlet, gold and light chartreuse
you don’t expect what can appear
when summer leaves a souvenir.
Nobody planted it but itself
no phantom gnome or garden elf
it had to see, after hearing the tout,
what Thanksgiving and Christmas were all about.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives
and D.J. Berg’s green (and yellow and red) thumb.
Maybe you remember
my Christmas tree mishap
when it toppled over
and flattened carpet nap.
Family ingenuity
perhaps aesthetics-free
brought it back to standing
with pragmaticality.
And now my poor tomato
bowed by wind and rain
lists like my old tree
risking break and sprain.
So whether Yule tradition
or heavy-laden vine
when the question comes from listing
the answer comes from twine.
Oddments 