Pleasant, autumn afternoon--snow coming soon and
best friend's bringing seeds of herbs.
Comparing verbs, Walt Whitman and me,
to geniuses of thyme and rosemary;
their aromatic appeal like rhythm in stanzas.
We plant the rows at garage
back door, the light to shine for food. In autumnís
beauty, we shake their booty, the prize will change
our mood. A medicine, a seasoning, a scent,
and English lesson of time will spent.
I want flowers of blue, he craves spices
thatís true in odes with lines short and long.
My flowers wither, his work lingers, studied
by those who yen to pen his craft. He masters
words like rafts riding riverís rifts.