Poetry for Dinner

I have a metal garden tub 
overturned on my porch, 
serving as more of a table 
waiting for spring to be set
with soil and all sorts 
of leafy green things. This year, 
Autumn appeared too quickly 
and now I’ve waited too late. 
Orange maple leaves are falling 
like placemats. Books 
have become my vegetables.
Birds are my guests. Honestly,
there may never be a garden; 
all I need are times like these 
to be fed.