i didn't bring the mums in this year
the weather prognosticator with his seal of approval
clicking in slides of the approaching clipper
warned of impending death with white lines and single digits
i watched them through the glass of the back door
one minute stretching to a faltering sun
the next looking at me with panicked and questioning eyes
wondering if their lives were a colorful show
the shovel i meant to wield to extend their annual lives
now rests against the faded cedar fence
half of the spade hidden beneath the first
sticking, lasting snow of the season
head bowed in mournful respect as i stare
at the wilted lifeless mass in the terra-cotta urn
a monument to good intentions and woeful neglect all because
i didn't bring the mums in this year
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