Four years ago, we signed a check.
Four years ago, we received a deed.
The place was OURS,
or so we thought.
On OUR place this spring,
I put out small tomato plants
and little pepper plants.
In pots I watered
through this summer’s drought.
I watched them grow
like the proverbial pot
that never boils.
One day the plants showed promise,
up and down their stems,
peppers and tomatoes
the size of ping-pong balls.
My anticipation lasted
until the morning
I found the stems stripped clean,
peppers spit out along the ground,
one lone tomato on the vine.
In the distance,
a doe
nursed her fawn.
The peppers recovered,
sending out new leaves,
putting on marble-sized peppers.
A new morning,
another stripping,
new peppers spit out on the ground.
The doe,
braver now,
naps on my lawn
while the fawn
scampers around her.
She sees me when she wakes,
hears my protest
“Those were MY peppers,
MY tomatoes.
on MY land.”
The look she gives me says it all.
“This land belonged to MY people
long before
it belonged to you.
We have tolerated
your usurping of OUR place.”
“Oh, and by the way,
the pepper leaves and green tomatoes
were delicious.”