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©2019, Olan L. Smith
The cactus is such a simple plant to care for;
My divine dharma to care for it until death do
Us part, but alas this deed is done, and the plant
Lies dead at Hades' door, a faint crocus color.
Woe is me, your jute like fibers dangle o'er
The edge of the vase, a reminder of failure,
For the once green thumbed angel, perhaps
No room in this new life for more than
Words on paper, and paint on canvas. Who
Knows? Certainly not the jackal who laughs at me,
Turns tail and runs into the night. Death doesn't
Light up the night, even the succulent laughs.
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Quill, by Olan L. Smith
Poetry"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
