They hang in two baskets, my twins
Mothers Day arrivals, with grins.
They need me so—my Purple and Pink,
itching for pinching, then a long drink
ev’ry day so the wilt won’t win—
new soil tucked under their chin.
Philosophy’s on hold just now–
reality’s behind the plow,
knowing one day will come the query
what we did when things were dreary.
Although it wouldn’t be very witty–
I must confess–more’s the pity.