Blooms

In the box of my fence is my garden.
Pushing back the boundaries of greenery
Stealing Trees competing for pruning glory
Whilst my little home-grown Petunias struggle:
Hardly a bud here, spot of rot there;
Will They Die? My petunias speak to me:

They say, "no," although
Our roots tangle with those of our overseers,
We can survive, and maybe, even...

Bloom with a little plant food
Water Regularly
Sing To Us Gently
And we'll reward your love
With a spot of colour amongst the green:
Life amongst the plenty.

But prepare, for blooms are transitory.
And we must rest, and die a little
Before a bloom again, or maybe
Never bloom again.