Based on a photo of a scarecrow and a wheelbarrow.
|Old Bob plants his garden
In my winter, wrinkled, 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 cold hands deep in dirt.
This is where I planted catnip,
there my beloved cat.
Here is where I want to be planted
beneath that turnip patch.
Each season's but another battle;
there is no time for fun.
Prop me up in this garden plot.
My work here isn't done.
© Kåre Enga [177.39] (18.april.2020)
Rhythm and rhyme xaxa xbxb ...
Originally posted in my poetry blog in entry "Old Bob plants his garden  " ; lightly edited. For Bob Turner.