Poetry

Image by Markus Spiske on Unsplash. (source)

Last week, I watered
Rows of carrots and cabbage
In raised beds of pine
At the foot of a hill.

This morning, I waded
Through rust-colored mud
To the foot of that hill--
But my garden was gone.

Tomorrow I'll borrow
A rusty old shovel
To dig out my pine beds
And plant seeds for next year.