Stem to bloom pulsing vibrant green,
striving life to groom, Jack’s stock without it’s bean.
Hoping for rain but begging for the sun,
showing signs of strain and the season’s just begun.

The commitment and dependency,
doesn’t cause resentment, nurturing comes naturally.
But no matter the effort I lack a green thumb,
I try to work and assert but I’m just feeling too numb.

Decorate the home and grave,
hint: they’re both the same place.
Dig and plant, my hands; a slave,
decorative dirt smudge on my face.
Seconds to minutes, and minutes to hours,
I play “she loves me, she loves me not” while plucking dead flowers.

Soil embraces the seed but nothing tends to grow,
I cry, sweat and bleed, maybe I dug an inch too low.
Hoping for rain but begging for the sun,
attempt to ignore the pain but the agony has won.

Wiping off stomped and crushed
four leaf clovers off the bottom of my shoe.
Walking through the field I felt I was rushed,
but I just knew I had to get through.
Crisping leaves with light and drowning in strong showers,
I play “she loves me, she loves me not” while plucking dead flowers.

Seasons will come and go,
the sun will rise and will set.
What dies eventually will one day grow,
what we remember we will forget.