Tomatillo

Dearest,
They have decided not to lay cover crops this year.
Sitting outside, leaning really
against haggard bricks and a chain linked fence,
a feeling arises,
becomes clear amongst the smoke tendrils,
something akin to reverie.
There are scatterings of transparent husks, arranged according to their falls.
They perch alive,
amongst the hay, boggy compost, and molded root systems.
Collected dew clings to gossamer skin.
Opal and peridot hues take their leave from winter light; settle in a breathless touch.
This match,
frailty and strength,
have aligned with obtuseness.

…And dearest, you are not needed here.
There are no wishes embedded in the sweat of guarded palms.
No calls tethered to hopeful wings, released.
Withered vocal chords, beseeching in a cacophony of desperate prayers.

No,
none of this dear.

No voice close by,
compelled to proselytize the infallible works of god.

Just this,

Silent tomatillo, little green tomato
may I be with you?