Painted pots of empty plants
Portrayed as strays in the sod
Who bought pots to plod them
Into warm, soft earth?
And fill them
With warm, soft earth?
But then came again frost
The point is moot when chilled
And when the holes
Sprout wild onions
Who could go wrong?
When the moss meanders under
Who could go wrong
And when crocuses peak premature
Who could go wrong
At least the pots were painted
No comments:
Post a Comment