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My caution goes numb when the catalogs come,
No way will it end for the good.
Cold winter without, but the spring pages shout,
"You better buy more than you should."
Some flowers, some seed: I just check what I need.
The total? Five hundred and ten!
A terrible blow, so back I must go.
The list must be pruned some and then...
It's still way too high. I almost can cry.
The visions of glory are fading,
Cross out and erase. A perennial case
of not enough cash. How degrading.
The list now is brief after pain and much grief.
The numbers, though, still wreck my budget.
Much more must be cut. I economize, but
The truth...well, I'm going to fudge it.
For I cannot say no to the flowers that glow
On the page and then after, the garden.
So what if I blunder? The balance goes under.
I'll look to the bank for a pardon.
All shame be to them if their view is so grim
That money they count more than beauty.
As for me, I must grow every flower I know,
For that, I believe, is my duty.