Rake. Musty, rusty Rake.
Rake.
Musty, rusty rake.
The rake calls out to me and I refuse to write a poem about it -
At first.
Its plain. Nothing special. No excitement from its creepy crawler legs.
Dead. Man-made. Crusty from the rust.
But I can hold it like I might hold something dear.
But I don’t. Its not dear. Its yard work on a cold fall day.
I guess I could look at the sun and hold it.
And pretend that it were dear.
It never leaves my grasp, better than a 5-year old child
That wants its independence.
Reliable Mr. Rake you are.
You are hardy. Spindly, bouncing back to your original position.
You mix in well with the foliage.
The rake is well pleased. He calls out to me again.
Thank you for your endearing poem.
Now praise another. Someone dear,
Someone important. You will love it now.
That is the lesson I can leave you.
Appreciation.
Musty, rusty rake.
The rake calls out to me and I refuse to write a poem about it -
At first.
Its plain. Nothing special. No excitement from its creepy crawler legs.
Dead. Man-made. Crusty from the rust.
But I can hold it like I might hold something dear.
But I don’t. Its not dear. Its yard work on a cold fall day.
I guess I could look at the sun and hold it.
And pretend that it were dear.
It never leaves my grasp, better than a 5-year old child
That wants its independence.
Reliable Mr. Rake you are.
You are hardy. Spindly, bouncing back to your original position.
You mix in well with the foliage.
The rake is well pleased. He calls out to me again.
Thank you for your endearing poem.
Now praise another. Someone dear,
Someone important. You will love it now.
That is the lesson I can leave you.
Appreciation.