Rhubarb

 
Two thousand years beyond their time
Untutored in the art of scope
These planes repeat an old mistake.

 
Flora now buried under grime
Once healed the first expansive ache
And threw their drowning world a rope.

 
But vast exceptions past their prime
On wasted ground without real hope
Still like to grow for growing’s sake.

 

 

March 11, 1953