by Rose Blackthorn

He’s never liked my flower beds.  He says they are a waste of time, and space.

We don’t spend enough time together, he says.  All my spare time is spent there, weeding, planting, pruning.

The smell of the manure, he says, is offensive.  Even though the flowers are lovely.

He threatened, then, to pull out my flowers.  He says we’ll put in a putting green.  What a waste, of time, and space.

But finally, we have compromised.  We can spend hours together, now.

I think he’ll make an exceptionally fine fertilizer.  Although the smell is somewhat offensive.


Rose Blackthorn is a writer, reader, dog-mom. Lives in the high-mountain desert, but longs for the sea.

She can be found online at

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