Frost Times

Frost Times

Three nights in a row.
Crystal clear below freezing.

My old tomato vines,
still brave with a blossom or two,
on Halloween night felt their cells burst,
contents lacerated and crushed by ice.
In the bare warmth this morning,
drooping leaves,
and limp, liquid, black-green stems,
with a distinct scent reminiscent of summer tomatoes pruned.
Only older.

They were easy to lift away,
their grip on the trellis finally lost,
laid in the wheelbarrow in the morning,
soiled roots piled together with stalks.
On the worn path to burial,
the compost pile,
covered in fallen oak leaves and grasses,
the recycling begins of summer atoms joined by sunlight.
Only older.