So, now we're at the end of the line,
a row of zeros, the 26th step
of a long straight ladder; finito,
basta, the last stroke, the slash
of Zorro's sword . . . .

 

And here we find you, deep
in the heart of the garden
at the zenith of summer,
green Zeppelins floating
in a scratchy-leafed sky. . . .

 

Although you start small,
from an oval tear-shaped
seed, quickly there's a sprout,
then two heart-shaped leaves,
and suddenly, you've taken
over the whole garden, nudged
out the radishes, covered up
the beans, hogged all the sunlight,
growing faster than I can say
ratatouille three times . . . .

 

In Corsica, my ancestors weeded
around your roots with zappas,
leaned on them to survey their zolas,
small plots, hoed them smooth
as a Zamboni clears the ice . . . .

 

We serve you up stuffed and broiled
with cheese topping, shredded
in quick bread with raisins and walnuts,
sautéed with tarragon, stewed with tomatoes
and basil, stir-fried in olive oil,
or in a cold zuppa, sour cream
floating on top. We even nibble
your flowers, dipped in batter, golden-fried.

 

Then, at summer's end, we find
what's left, lurking in the leaves:
an enormous baseball bat flung
in the corner, abandoned, waiting
patiently for the seasons to whirl
around again, bringing the start
of spring training, the sun,
rising like the letter A, rosy in the east.

 

This poem first appeared in Iodine (2009).
Used here with the author's permission.