Fifty three degrees,
rain misting to the North
to fill the turning cups of tree leaves.
Breeze crisp from the South,
jean cords folding the spread wet skin
at my knees sunk into garden dirt.
The beet sprouts, purple toothpicks
in the black blanket before my palms,
are late. Lean close to hear
the little afternoon train earthworms
on their tracks and ants
bumping shoulders, platform rush hour.
Oh beets, you are late. You are late.
Do hurry. Stand to feet in the thickening rain.
Shelter quickly. Do hurry.
"The frost is on its way,"
whistle winds.
