When the neighbors stroll by saying, “Free food!” (Sonnet)

When every rotting leaf, each wind blown feather
Speaks shrilly of the end of Summer’s song,
While sunsets come more quickly, and the weather
Brings scents of cooler breezes before long-
As weaker light predicts the dying garden
And hands grow weary of the endless weeds,
Then flowers turn to seedheads that will harden
Into the food each tiny creature needs.
So look up from the grubbing in the soil
To see the heavy-bearing branches there
Above you and behind you as you toil
To grow all that you’ll need with some to spare.
Fall’s generosity and Winter’s leisure
Depend on feeling Summer’s work as pleasure.

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About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
This entry was posted in Autumn, Gardening, Gardening, Usually Organic, Poetry, Sonnet, Summer, Winter. Bookmark the permalink.

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