My little orange tree sighed and died
Did I not water it enough in the heat
One hundred dollars I paid
For the prospect of something sweet
And to swoon to the scent
Of its carved ivory flowers
Privately in my own backyard
Spring is such an intimate thing
But two green branches remain
On the brown leafless stalk
And cooler days will soon return
So maybe there's a stub of hope
Still struggling underground
Dreaming of green and orange
No comments:
Post a Comment