We planted rows of beans. Surrounded them with fencing – the kind to keep rabbits from nibbling on the tender shoots. We watered, weeded, cheered when their white flowers were pollinated by bees. Now we are holding a celebration in honor of fresh green beans.
Like a Merry-go-Round ride this old blue planet spins round and round – tilting now and then just to add a touch of seasoning, a smidge of reasoning far enough away from the flame of that burning star that we feel its spicy heat
It was a gray day – gray sky, gray dreams. Rolling fog came pushing it’s way across the ground masquerading as a goblin, and I looked for a safe place, a hidey hole. Hope hung limply, like a worn out chemise, until a small trumpeter with a black cap chirped notes of promise into the air.
This poem’s been dragged and bagged and now it’s lagging behind – trying to flag down some scallawag staggering by, wagging an extra word or two that it needs to snag if it’s ever going to be able to brag about itself properly, on paper