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.