Poetry

Under the summer sun’s harsh glare I hoed
and I weeded,
to and fro I planted the seed in rows,
flowers I needed
to like their mother grow almost waist high
but unheeded
of all my efforts not a single one
appeared as the soil turned to stone.

Some more seeds I harvested from dried buds
as spring came on,
some the weavers might as their food devour,
they may be gone
with the whispering churning rampant wind
but some alone
would burst through the earth, would no season mar,
like blazing flaming yellow and red stars.