The Poetry Of Life
Let the plant wither if it must, the seed fell days ago; Stuck in a pod, half blind, trapped in a cold puddle, Like some muddied, pock-marked, leftover snowball. Too dismal to throw. I have nothing to do but hibernate. What am I some kind of iced-over, frost bitten hedgehog? I’m shrinking! How can this be with all these trickles? I’m down to a husk of a thing, rattling around like some blind-sided snail. I’m dying out here! Or maybe drying; at least things are improving, I mean how can I do anything about it? OUCH! I’ve been crunched by a rabid runner and stuffed into a furrow! I think I’ll cry...yes... Wait a minute, what is that streaming stuff? Is it dirt? Is it Sun? Is it Rain? I’m growing! Help! I’m being resurrected! ckr.com/496/19465894059_7431b11602_c.jpg" width="530" height="800" alt="20150709-DSC_6974">