The clerk handed me the pot containing poet seeds. It was on sale.
“Remember to give them lots of sunlight,” he said. “And to praise them three times a day.”
I brought them home and put them in a spot that got lots of light. And as the sprouts poked through the soil, waxing poetic, I made sure to tell them, “You’re doing great!”
But one night I forgot. What can I say? I was busy.
When I found them in the morning they were mummified—mouths agape, eyes to the heavens. Their last words will always be a mystery.
“Remember to give them lots of sunlight,” he said. “And to praise them three times a day.”
I brought them home and put them in a spot that got lots of light. And as the sprouts poked through the soil, waxing poetic, I made sure to tell them, “You’re doing great!”
But one night I forgot. What can I say? I was busy.
When I found them in the morning they were mummified—mouths agape, eyes to the heavens. Their last words will always be a mystery.
