The Wrong Season

He planted the roses
in the wrong season,
deceived by the string of
balmy days
into thinking spring had come.
He churned up the soil
and mixed it with peat moss
and bone meal.
He laid down a two inch blanket
of black mulch.
But a sudden cold snap
left the buds hard and brittle
the sprouts rubbery to the touch.
He fertilized them daily
but it was like trying to pump life
into a corpse
or to revive an adolescent love affair
which had come to naught.
finally he yanked them out
and vowed to try again next year.


(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

  1. Art,

    Your poems are such concise and vivid mini-stories. Reading them floods the imagination with full-color glimpses into little alternate realities that either stir emotion or whimsy or both. Keep it up! It is exciting to see how prolific you have been with the fruit of your creativity.


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