Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby's buttocks, 
eggplants glossy as waxed fenders, 
purple neon flawless glistening 
peppers, pole beans fecund and fast 
growing as Jack's Viagra-sped stalk, 
big as truck tire zinnias that mildew 
will never wilt, roses weighing down 
a bush never touched by black spot, 
brave little fruit trees shouldering up 
their spotless ornaments of glass fruit: 

I lie on the couch under a blanket 
of seed catalogs ordering far 
too much. Sleet slides down 
the windows, a wind edged 
with ice knifes through every crack. 
Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers: 
I want to believe every promise, 
to trust in five pound tomatoes 
and dahlias brighter than the sun 
that was eaten by frost last week.