Beautiful Plague

The roses are choking the oats in the field,
To dahlias the rain-riven okra must yield;
Begonias have swollen and stunted the wheat,
These soft-scented petals hold nothing of meat.

The peaches have blossomed but set no new fruit,
In westerly furrows impatiens take root;
The hounds in their kennel lay mewling or dead –
On puffy chrysanthemum florets they fed.

The carrots, the turnips, once neat in their row,
Now twisted and withered where snapdragons grow;
The daisies, the tulips, alive and alight
Are scourges more stinging than mildew or blight.

One thought on “Beautiful Plague

  1. This one is based off something my dad said once, “Every flower we grow in the greenhouses here is probably a weed somewhere. Maybe they’re growing dandelions somewhere.”
    I just took it to the logical extreme; how beauty can choke out the more basic requirements of living if left completely unchecked.

    Originally this was going to be a terza rima poem but I messed up and it ended as an almost-sonnet. Oh well.

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