A silver flower pot perches
on the old lady’s fence corner, home
to summer Geraniums, Spikes,
and Parrot’s Beak.

In autumn, wrinkled hands replace
dried plants with bronze and gold
leaves, at Christmas,
with pine sprays and red berries.

In winter, frosted with snow, false vines hint
of life in the spring. But no! Rude hands attack
in the night, ripping
out vines, leaving
only dirt and dry stalks to greet
the old lady.

— Betty Laird lives in Lawrence.