Monday, July 27, 2015

August is coming, and I hate August.

Soaking It All In

The small azalea and blueberry bushes grew
in small pots on the porch when they were tiny and new.
They were junkies, too,
addicted to long drinks of rain and sips of dew
(on the rocks).

They jonesed  for the sunlight.
They quivered beneath the moonlight.
They had some blow when the wind was right.
Grass could be found everywhere in sight.

They were cut off cold when the winter came.
No sunshine, no dew, no drops of rain.
The blow turned bitter and caused them pain.
Nothing sustaining shot up into their veins
(So they slept.)

They awakened when they heard the robin's song!
They survived the darkness, and their branches are long.
I wish you would have been as strong.

You couldn't find a way to bud or start your life anew.
Stuck in the void, you decided you were through,
while the little plants fought their addictions and grew.
So we planted them, but we scattered you.

(And I wept).