Behind in chair.
Lately, I’ve been potting
dried-out sucking for soil, air, fresh, newness succulents – survivors from yesteryear’s wedding
succulent gifts – the inspiration for the revival
some beetroot relish – other vegetables will soon find themselves in a pickle
and curdling milk – pont l’eveque mellowing in a man-made cave (aka a plastic container)
(the olive tree rooted on my to-do list)
fennel near the kennel – I searched in vain for a better plot
to capture your attention, but mainly
because I don’t want my writing, my life, go to pot.
Dear reader, please tell me – would you call this potting pottering?