YOKED

It is a humid summer day and I am on my way to visit my Dad.  He lives in an apartment complex where people stick miniature flamingoes and spinning windstars in their planters.  A few kids splash around the community pool in floaties and ruffly swim suits, as their parents turn up the mariachi station on a handheld radio.  Approaching his patio steps, I notice how much his once modest array of plants has sprawled into a lavishly overgrown garden.  I enter the antechamber of hanging plants and wild shoots and part a ripened curtain of tomato vines that dangles from the surrounding lattice. The amount of green here is astounding.  It catches my eye from all different angles and when it meets the light, bursts into the color it was destined for.  I remember when my Dad first began planting his patio garden.  It started out looking very potted and contained- a rose bush in the corner, a few spongy leaves, and the exotic stalks I would have to ask him to name. But now all that has ch