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