The story so far:
They are hardly in my thoughts today. On the anniversary of the birth of our nation, the less than sovereign soil of my garden has birthed new citizens. And the tomatoes must bare witness to yet another garden tyrant’s atrocity. I planted several seeds in each of the moat-ringed dirt mounds that my green custodians overlook. Several sprouted, but only four can be sustained, any more will lead to strangled vines and starved pumpkins. Meaning I, monarch of this patch of dirt, must cull the unwanted. I can think only of Thomas Paine on a day like today, “Everything that is right and reasonable pleads for separation. The blood of the slain, the weeping voice of nature cries, ‘tis time to part.” And still, though it is best and necessary for survival, I can hear the rustling of the tomatoes as I pluck the surplus sprouts from the moist, hard earth. No doubt they will stand, as wizened and sage guardians, and urge the survival of the fortunate few.