I Grow Old, I Grow Old

'I grow old, I grow old,' the garden says.
It is nearly October.

The bean leaves grow paler,
now lime, now yellow,
now leprous,
dissolving before my eyes.
The pods curl and do not grow,
turn limp and blacken.

The potato vines wither,
and the tubers huddle underground
in their rough weather-proof jackets,
waiting to be dug.

The last tomatoes ripen
and split on the vine;
it takes days for them
to turn entirely now,
and a few of the green ones
are beginning to fall off.