Morning Glory
Three knuckles deep in loam
and still digging, I don't know
what it is I search for.
I'm certain I won't find it here
and the gardenia's stopped blooming.
Yellow litters the ground
like last year's Christmas lights
limp and withered at her feet.
And yet, the morning glory climbs
ivory in sunrise light.
Poetry
Enjoyed this, Erin. A pleasant scene with undertones of concern. I'll have to tell you sometime or write a poem about giving great care and attention to what turned out to be one tall ragweed. : )
ReplyDelete-Millard
Hi Millard! Glad you enjoyed this, I'll be looking forward to that story!
ReplyDeleteOh! I nurtured a ragweed once too. But, hey, they look like they should be beautiful flowers. There really is a poem in ragweed.
ReplyDeleteI love this poem. I dig in the earth with my hands, someone hands me a trowel, I look at them all confused. I'm not sure we're on the same wavelength.