Posted in Poetry

Yard Work by L. M. Montes

As the rain blew down I stood and pouted,
the sun refused to show or be outed,
grass grew up,
and stood corrupt,
I had to cut it because it sprouted.

There stood a barberry bush with pickers,
it grabbed my shirt and everyone snickered,
I took the shears,
there were no tears,
as the pointed picker bush stood tapered.

Autumn leaves changed color then floated down,
nature now stood bare with a winter frown,
they couldn’t stay,
or forever lay,
so rakes whisked by to gather piles of brown.


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