Each spring, with buds and hopes reborn, I plant the seeds; await
The gangly stalks with yellow blooms the size of dinner plate.
But May turns June, and then July, and still no stalks emerge;
So once again my hopes are dashed, my every-summer scourge.
I wonder if it’s birds or ground-based varmints who will dine
On every seed and every sprout — my efforts they malign.
My failure then is magnified; on rural roads I’m shown
The ditches filled with soaring stalks, all growing on their own!