Oddments

In search of story


4 Comments

July 2.19

I am Gardener:

hear me growl.

Voracious brigands

sneak and prowl.

They come by land,

they come by air,

hordes on wing

and hordes from lair.

My harvest shrinks

with every hour

as they attack,

englut, devour.

Coneflowers! Moss roses!

My zinnia patch!

Impatiens! Basil!

Down the hatch!

I mix and sprinkle,

shake and douse;

my garden fragrance

l’eau d’outhouse.

Instead of blooms

and flowering vines,

all I see

are dollar signs.