The tangle of thin arms takes over
my garden, swollen with tomatoes.
Jalapeños descend, remnants
of flower cling to skin. In winter
I never imagine fertility
like this: a splintering fence
laced with leaves and droplets
of mottled gourds. I doubt
this bounty needs me to exist.
See the maple’s canopy, long
removed from its planter’s hand? There,
winged seeds hang poised for release:
a spiral of fluttering; and then
I feel the stirring, the first
movement, but it is not mine.