Perhaps it is not a giving up, but a giving in

After loving a garden
a long time through hail
and too much rain
or drought and wilting heat,
it is hard to stop watering it,
wishing in it, to know when
to let earth take cucumbers
I let yellow into bitterness
on the stem, comfrey
surrendered to grasshoppers
I could not kill
who shredded leaves to lace
in hope they’d leave basil alone,
rosemary that never bloomed
whose tips I harvested anyway.
Sometimes, when I am tired
of hoping, I begin to pray
for first frost.

2011