botched botany

let's abandon our petals

to tend to one's weeds:

whacking and pruning,

watering and picking.

a quiet stroll alone as the

tail of autumn whispers

her last warm breath: "until next time," flowers!

creaking bench swing and

orange pumpkins, our

toes just barely swishing

over a puddle of temptation.

shiny and new –– but

winter is coming. we

knew better than to plant

our seeds into cold soil.

k.c.d., 03/2025