Not much of a gardener,
but seems I’m adept
at growing dirty clothes –
the shirt I planted
Monday, having now
sprouted many offshoots,
the fruit heavy and pungent
overflowing the hamper,
begging to be picked.
Nothing golden
about this skill however,
more melancholy than
rewarding, the hours
dedicated to folding
and putting away
akin to self-castigation –
only temporarily satisfying.
Suppose I can’t complain;
a day’s toil has merit
and even if the harvest
reaps no foodstuffs
nor the fragrance
of fresh cut flowers,
I am at very least
assured to be presentable
should going out be an option.
(Inspired by this day’s chore and the daily prompts of Fandango: melancholy, Ragtag Community: gold, and Daily Addictions: dedicate. Thanks for dropping by.)
One Woman's Quest 