Poetry and Poetics
The asparagus she once bribed me to eat
is sprouting near the chicken wire
(though I sprinkled fertilizer to cheat).
The larks she fed have formed a choir;
I reward their song with safflower seeds
like the ones tossed at her wedding.
I use her kitchen shears to trim the weeds
that, every April, she'd be dreading.
Her treasured noisette roses are ablaze
now in a crimson bright and bold—
the very color of her bedroom chaise.
They'll flower more than once, I'm told.
© by Christine
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