A que of brittle skeletons await removal in the greenhouse, dehydrated shells of tomato plants. I nimbly remove each supporting clip and plant matter shatters and flakes at my feet. These departed bodies are dried up and sagging now, but at their climax, they were Venus in a vine physique; long slender stems, lines of a ballet dancer, plump round bosoms that drew the hand. Their season has turned. No one peeks in the door to comment on their beauty or reach for their midsection. Time will teach us all this lesson.