Monday Poem

Last Zucchini

But for two still-green plants
the zucchini have been pulled

a heap of hollow stalks and yellow leaves
lies at the end of their once-lush row

the reaper’s been through
the day of zucchini is done

The sun-starved weeds that hunkered tenuously
under the zuke’s broad fronds sprout now
in the short late sun unaware of their
cramped circumstances: the late hour,
the short days, the persistence of cosmic
revolutions, the meaning of the cant of axes:
the pinch of relativity—

Just 10 weeks ago I wrote of the first zucchini:
a compliant stud swelling in shade, I said,

bound for succulent sacrifice in a sauté
and I spoke true —it was like savoring sun

but now, from one of two remnants plants,
I pluck Mr. Last without remorse hoping

that in this or some other inevitable revolution
in one certain approaching autumn or another

I’ll be attuned enough to know
what it means to be myself
matter-of-factly plucked

by Jim Culleny;