Every spring I gather the plants
like a hen hovering over her chicks.
All they want is some damp soil
and a lot of warm sunshine, but
they didn't grow wild among redwoods,
and they're a little dismayed at
how shy the sun appears to be up here.
He looks down aslant on them,
peering between the tall trees
like a lovesick boy at the prom queen.
What they would like is for him
to come out and openly declare
his passion for ripe, juicy tomatoes.