Two cherry tomatoe plants, six inches high,
afterthoughts from the Farmers Market,
exploded. Hungry for sky,
bursting out of their wire cages,
they shaded heirlooms
and hid red ping pong balls
in a hive of tangled green.
Then in September, morning glories
opening and closing.
Wild with sprawl,
their brilliance turned the mass of green
and buried the
red ping pong balls
(a lone poem written way past bedtime.)