Sometimes my man buys plants.
He follows the instructions on the tab,
And sets it somewhere sunny
in his attic apartment.
For a week, he is diligent;
sees how hardy his new friend is.
and admires its beauty.
Then he watches it die.
Try as he might, after a short while,
he doesn't always remember
to water it on time,
to give it some love,
and so then it shrivels up.
Dead.
Upon seeing it, my man is mortified.
But for some strange reason,
he never tosses it out.
He keeps it sitting on top of where ever.
Dead.
For many more weeks.
I don't remind him,
how sad it is to see it.
Out of fear he'd get a new one,
and love it dead all over again.
The other day, my man
gave me a kiss
and called me a beautiful flower.
I am grateful
these legs aren't roots.

Calling Spring North,
Chirping buds to burgeon,
Teetering in rain that turns to sleet,
Clutching black, wet branches,
Feathers puffed against the chill,
Cocked heads seeking sleepy worms,
Side glancing carefully the neighbor's cat.

These red-breasted birds
Chortling in the morning sun
Precurse Spring,
Sing cheer to me.

Though I, no longer young,
My Autumn just begun,
Winter coming on,
Life's seasons only last a while.

I have a Savior,
Who has gone before,
Endured cold Winter's death,
Calls me to Spring,
Beckons me to Summer....