Strawberries & Herbs

Teetering, toddling, and waddling out,

The old man shimmies and shuffles,

Eager and awaiting,

Any excuse to begin and plant.

He bustles and busies himself,

Rearranging pots and pallets,

Ripped and uninterested pieces,

For another year's attempt.

He huffs silently,

Careful not to be caught,

By a concerned wife and son,

Watching him hawkishly,

For the signs of struggle and age.

No, he's too busy to die today;

There are strawberries and herbs to plant,

To sprout over the long summer,

To sprits and spray,

To shelter in the plastic greenhouse,

To cover with splayed bag,

And do all the things he feels.

He'll pitter and patter with feet,

Shifting the weight from one to another,

Tick-tocking in impatience.

The summer will come and go,

And he'll have proud produce to show

Awards for his resolve and green thumb.

But when the winter comes,

And the greenery shrinks and retreats,

So will he inside,

And watch the leaves, rain, and snow fall.

Come the spring,

Every year on year,

The plants will come and grow,

Awaiting his return.

And one year,

He will be his son,

Not even watched by his mother.

But still there is much to do,

Too much to let a little death end.

No, this is no time to die.

There are strawberries and herbs to grow.