sorrow

A full summer
of tending the garden,
turning over the dark loam,
sifting the soil,
doling out water
with dirt-crusted nails
in the twilight.

Hours of pulling crabgrass,
chopping down thistles
with their lavender tufts,
leaving morning glory
to wither rootless
in the hot August sun.

Sweat filled labor
birthed row upon row
of jewel-like quarts.
Emerald beans. Golden peaches.
Ruby tomatoes.

The shelf burdened
under weight of the goodness –
breaks.

Crack. The pending
heartbeat with time
suspended
before all collapses,
shatters.

Crimson. My heart
aches. Crimson
all over the floor.