“These weeds, won’t last, until next spring”
My uncle sighed, with a, sweet despair
For the, greater bounties, vineyards bring
I saw my, farm of love, scythed bare!
In heaps, they died, by the, hawthorn hedge
Yearning, for a, rebirth, thru, throes of fall
Alas! Smoldered, in ash, their pledge
Like a thorn, in my heart, lingered, their thrall!
And a, vinery throve, on remains, of his ‘weeds’
When Plutus, Bachhus, blessed his land
At fortune’s, fief’s fringes, endured, faith’s seeds
When you, farm with love, hope grows, from sand!
In patches, bloomed, white, pink, blue bliss
Like the rosary, of my, scattered thoughts
I found rebirth, in my, soul’s abyss
Since The, Funeral Of, Forget-Me-Nots!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra