Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills.
|Inspired by a photo (below) for Bob'n Along 's free verse contest. This is definitely NOT free verse! I'll have to write another from a different perspective and get this rhythm and rhyme scheme out of my head.
Old Bob plants his garden
In my winter, withered, worn,
I plan for what's to come.
For I cannot stop in springtime
when life has scarce begun.
And I cannot leave when summer
corn withers without rain.
And I cannot die in autumn
before harvesting the grain.
Wobbly I lean onto the barrow
clad in my tattered shirt.
Battered I hold fast to the ground,
my hands deep in cold dirt.
This is where I planted catnip,
there my beloved cat.
This is where I want to be planted
beneath that turnip patch.
Each season is but one short battle;
there is no time for fun.
Prop me up in this garden plot.
My work here isn't done.
KE [177.39] (18.april.2020)
** Image ID #2219311 Unavailable **