By Robert Crawford

By August I noticed the lack of care,
And now in September I feel the despair;
The rusting tools, the vanished rows,
Reveal an all too brief affair.

The hopeful beginning has come to a close
As a meeting place for sinister crows
And devious weeds planning for when
They’ll make this a plot where anything goes.

What kind of errant husbandman
Would let it fall to field again?
I think I know, I’ve met a few:
A fine egalitarian—

The type of man, a touch askew,
Who holds the universal view,
“To everything, a heart be true,”
But saves desertion just for you.

 

© 2001; originally printed in Troubadour: Best of
Rhyme.

Related Post

Ode to the Confederate Dead by Cause Bewilder for Joshua Philipp Grave statue after statue falls with strict impunity. Memorials and monuments yield to community. The wind wh...

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.