A Small Holding

She keeps the gate unlatched.

She has spent years
staking other people's tomatoes,
watering whatever leaned,
tying broken stems to sticks
and calling it a garden.

Her own small patch
went politely wild.

Now a peach has appeared.
Warm on the branch.
Softening without permission.

She does not touch it.

Touching it
would make the thing partly hers.

She inspects the leaves
for grounds.

A beetle underneath.
One leaf browned at the edge.
Three bees taking liberties.

The fruit has ripened quickly.
The branch will need a prop.
The tree is becoming presumptuous.

And if the garden
fails to provide a reason,
one can always plant one.

By dusk
the gate remains unlatched.

The peach has not moved.
Across its skin,
a thumbprint.

F.S.F