If Beets Were Blue

Having suffered a tangle of weeds

as the grass shrivels and dies

their shoulders emerge

pink, golden and red.

Breeching the glacier-laid loam

they broaden and grow

sweeter for frost

and the equinox sun.

Come see my beets

like rosy-cheeked girls

in red skirts and pink scarves

reclusive and shy

as the red-breasted finch

that flees from the jay.

But I'm glad beets aren't blue.

Aren't you?

A little fun for the turning of the sun. And for open link night at dVerse  the Poet's Pub