Head Down

The garden plot, mostly gone to seed.

But one still stood,

a stubborn, dying creed.

Its face, once bright,

a heavy, drooping disk.

Blackened, almost,

not worth the risk

of looking up.

Its seeds long spilled,

or picked, or gone to waste.

Just shriveled bits,

like dry scabs, held in haste.

Bent to the earth,

its purpose lost and deep.

A shame, I thought,

such promise, gone to sleep.

It smelled of rot,

a sour, final breath.

Just waiting there

for the cold hand of death.