Urban garden
She tends tomatoes on her fire escape,
defying concrete with stubborn green hope.
Each morning, watering can in hand,
she climbs three flights to meet her miracle.
The city breathes exhaust and hurry,
but here—four floors above the chaos—
cherry tomatoes blush toward ripeness,
basil perfumes the summer air.
Her neighbours call her crazy,
this woman who talks to plants,
who saves rainwater in old mason jars,
who believes in growing things upward.
But I see her truth from my window:
how faith looks like daily watering,
how hope climbs toward light,
how the Kingdom grows in the smallest spaces.
When harvest comes, she’ll share
her rooftop bounty with the building,
proving once again that love,
like tomatoes, multiplies when tended.
