a pineapple top sticks out
its tongue from under
the window
 
daring me to believe
it’s spring
and that pineapples will grow
 
in the desert.
dried up sage plants talk
amongst themselves
 
planning a mutiny if they
don’t get more cover
(pineapple sage i think)
 
and they conspire against me
meeting with sagging tomatoes

to discuss the state of the garden

 
waiting  for the mint
who is bringing refreshments,
arriving with the succulents from the other
 
side of the bricks.
i’ll hear them until late in the night,

the strawberries always talking
 
out of turn.
and in the center of the fray,
directing the pomegranate tree who
 
offer its opinion from
deep in the yard, is
that damn pineapple top
 

who’s yet to lay roots
there beneath 

the open window