New Poem

Gardening

“Radish murderer!” he roared,
Only half kidding, from the back deck
Of the cabin, testing, trying
To guilt me, make me stop
Culling tender sprouts
From our spring garden
In the yard beneath.

But I, the farmer’s daughter,
Remained impervious to city boy.
Someone had to do it;
Or they would none of them grow
Big: round, red, juicy. Instead,
Our radishes would stunt, remain
Puny, pale, thin, hardly
Worth eating.

Someone had to do it.
He had helped plant, but
Up to him,
They would all die.

P.E. Ortman