Potting around

Behind.

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?

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