Promises

Soft cold rain falls
on forlorn tomato plants;
they look misplaced, aggrieved
expecting a Mexican climate.

I rub their tender leaves
for the scent of summer
it lingers but does not avail,
summer is nontransferable.

The inside beckons still,
the loft of book ease
cushioned and distractionless;
the weather accords good study
slack limbed deep sleep.