Old Bob plants his garden

Old Bob plants his garden

In my winter, wrinkled, worn,
I plan for what's to come.

For I cannot stop in springtime
when life has scarce begun.

And I cannot leave when summer
corn withers without rain.

And I cannot die in autumn
before harvesting the grain.

Wobbly I lean onto the barrow
clad in my tattered shirt.

Battered I hold fast to the ground,
my cold hands deep in dirt.

This is where I planted catnip,
there my beloved cat.

Here is where I want to be planted
beneath that turnip patch.

Each season's but another battle;
there is no time for fun.

Prop me up in this garden plot.
My work here isn't done.

© Kåre Enga [177.39] (18.april.2020)

20 lines

Rhythm and rhyme xaxa xbxb ...

Originally posted in my poetry blog in entry "Old Bob plants his garden [39] " ; lightly edited. For Bob Turner.