Harvest

By Andrew Hudgins

From my neighbor's dark garden, I harvested
     asparagus,
pilfering slender spears from their feathery bed. I cut
buds of American Beauty, and all spring and into early
     autumn
I have savored the fragrance redolent of theft.
Through summer, I pinched from his vines
squash, beans, tomatoes, and more squash.
In the yard where I watched his daughter marry, I
     have,
by moonlight, quietly divided his hostas, divided his
     day lilies,
keeping half. My neighbor's dead, the house for sale,
and after dark his garden's mine to love and plunder.

This article available online at:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/11/harvest/309102/