My three tomato plants, once
Productive, are drooping now,
Their leaves yellowed and
Riddled with holes,
But today I managed to pick
Two small tomatoes.
My neighbor, Jean, brought over
A tiny rosebud, the last of the
Season, she said.
I can smell its scent even though
It has just a day or two before
It's gone.
Jack is dying too.
Like my tomato plant he is
Riddled with disease, stooping more
Each day,
Barely hanging on.
But amazingly, I still see fruit
Hiding among the scrawny
Foilage.
I see it in a beautiful prayer,
A warm hug.
And I still smell the fragrance of
His smile quietly pervading the
Room as he steadily, slowly
Slips away.
(Written a year ago.)