Addicted to Gambling

It isn’t the beginning or end of a marathon that is the hardest.  It’s the middle where you think you have been going on forever and you don’t think the end is ever going to come.  So it is with  NaPoWriMo and writing a new poem every day.  These days are the doldrums even though I know that in another few days I will be able to see the end and will get a second wind to carry me to the end.  At least I have a new poem for today:

 

It seems like it’s an easy thing to do.

You take a cutting, stick it in the ground,

and in a couple minutes or an hour

the cutting roots and you’ve a brand new tree.

Well that’s the way it is supposed to work

if we were living in a perfect world.

But it is not. I know it’s not because

my cuttings never root. The simply rot,

but not until they make me think they’ll grow.

They’ll send out leaves, and each time I am sure

that this time surely, certainly, there’s roots.

The tree will grow and soon there will be fruit.

But there are never any roots, and soon

the leaves are wilted, and I know it’s time

to pull the sticks and put them in the trash.

I know that I could buy a grafted tree,

a tree with roots that’s guaranteed to grow,

but where’s the fun in that? I play to dream,

and next year I will play and dream again.

And next year I am certain they will grow.

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