Thursday, February 27, 2014


Cycles, like circles
Can chase their own tail
Snakes without ladders
And bread without ale

Waiting for springtime
We’re tired of the snow
And searching to find
New flowers to grow

In our gardens of soil
Our sweat and our toil
Each color’s divine
In moments that rhyme

The flowers will grow
Whether here or not
But old planted rows
Loves compost that rots

Each color is bright
When a plant matures
If the soil stays black
Then the cycle recurs