I plan a garden beside the door,
forget our kitchen is up one floor.
I choose farm produce I’ve eyed with greed,
remove the rind and collect the seed.
After a week, green beans, uncooked
are not crisp and tasty as they looked.
When the peach goes wrinkly on the shelf
there’s no one to blame but my own self.
I look at my compost bag with pride,
but forget to take it all outside.
When the waiting seeds all gather mold
I think my plans were perhaps too bold.
I buy a plant, wait for tomatoes
and try to sprout some old potatoes
but both are in a difficult spot
shriveling, unwatered. I forgot.
Gardening’s harder than I’ve been told;
I feel decrepit and very old.
Inspired by dVerse and Who Killed the Plan? by Amos Russel Wells