|
Ode to Mulch: A Sonnet
by Bruce W Niedt
O Mulch, thou warmeth Sleep of Bulbs unborn,
Though thou wast chopped from mighty Trees to Chips,
O Mulch, the Sacrifices made from Timbers torn,
For purpose of a Blanket for Tulips!
Thou selfless Cover, rusty in thy Hue,
That suffers Winter with its Ice and Hoar,
Shall yield to budding Hyacinths of Blue!
And Shrubberies! And O so Much Much More!
The Gardener smiles on thee, thy thankless Task,
As he doth till the thawing Ground of Spring,
Thou dost thy Job, and thou wouldst never ask
For Compensation, not a bloody Thing!
If only more were like thee, Constant Mulch,
The World would have less War and Pain and sulch!
10/05/2001 Posted on 10/05/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Jeanne Marie Hoffman on 12/05/03 at 09:31 PM Haha, in my gardening, I never thought to stop and praise or thank my mulch ;) |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 11/02/06 at 05:38 PM Kudos!..mulch ado about nothing, and yet, beautifully wrought, like all the finer gardens should be! |
| 
