Only a few days left to celebrate. On the 24th, our poetry moderator provided us with the following prompt:
* Write a poem about a mundane, everyday activity.
Well, I've been watching the history series Nazi Hunters recently, and so my psyche is filled with accounts of human carnage. Let that preface my little poem about gardening:
Is it worth raw fingers,
mud caked under fingernails
to pluck up roots, overturn
cities of underground highways,
to iron out the ugliness, trim and mold and
beautify to my liking,
to change the world one blade at a time?
It takes a certain sense of false
supremacy to say
this beetle’s abode