A garden-variety massacre:
Powdery blight, tomato
stems felled, liquifying, putrid,
thin and brown, fruits on the ground
in varied states of decay, forests
of mold hairs, copious and fine–
Under gray skies
in sodden soil collapsing
husks returning to whence
they came–
There was a storm
that shook fruits free,
there was hard ground
that split their skins,
there was a rat
that sunk in teeth
and then there were seeds
so many small promises
that even neglected even
laid to waste
nothing is wasted
nothing has gone
not really, not
completely
OPTIONAL POETRY 
What a great poem. Starts with breakage and ends with reverence.
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Thank you! I still feel pretty guilty for seeing all that produce rotting, though.
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This is beautiful. I love the images — making beauty from decay.
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Thank you for your kind words!
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