Brandywine Love, The Ode

O green-hearted sun-catcher,

rising in a bucket throne built of stone

you are the pulse of this little garden plot,

the red breath between concrete and sky.

Your leaves stretch like lazy hands

toward the morning,

each stem a gentle oath to ripen,

each fruit a soft promise of summer

swollen with warmth.

I watch you

as one might watch a child

discovering light for the first time.

Your tomatoes blush

not the sharp crimson of store-bought shame,

but the dusk-tinged velvet

of old rose petals

left to dream

in folds of forgotten love letters.

How noble you stand,

undaunted by winds

or the thirsty gossip of squirrels,

a quiet empire growing

in the arms of your own resolve.

You do not speak

but still, I listen.

To your language of ripening,

your cadence of curling stems,

your syntax of scent,

which is sweeter than basil

and more truthful than the rain.

I love you

not only for the harvest,

but for the hope.