“Mother! How sweet of you to sugar crust
with snow the new grapevine leaves, baby grapes.
So thoughtful of you. Freezing ice on the tiny
pin-headed oregano sprouts, not to mention
the killing glaze on the pink blossoms.
Hey, Mother, I didn’t ask for this.”
Mother Nature pops another valium. Scowls.
“Get over it, Dude. The grapevines will survive,
oregano be more aromatic, and the pink
blossoms you’re whining about, are ready to fall.”
“No buts.” She points at me, squints. “You
are not in charge here.”