Out back
The cantaloupe
Forms small, hard, green
Knots on the vine.
When I planted a garden
The end of June
It was still raining;
I resolved not to fret.
Perhaps I will wade
Through the wet grass,
Cut from the vine,
Throw on the compost.
Better yet, leave it
To grow as it will
Knowing there is not enough
Summer left for it to ripen.
I know raccoons,
Chipmunks and mice
Surely will wander through,
Discover this green feast.
I see evidence
They have tried again
To open buckets of birdseed
Out on the porch.
People in cities
May not know this quandary:
To reap what does not grow
Or to sacrifice to other creatures.
Tonight I will make stew
With store-bought goods,
Curl up on the couch,
Read a good book.
I bid good-bye,
Wrapped in an old quilt,
to Summer-that-never-was;
Dream ahead to next August.
With glorious sun,
Long dryer days,
Plump ruddy chipmunks,
Nibbled ripe cantaloupe.
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