Your time to season has had its season,
your useful bits have now long gone;
you struggle to rhyme without your reason,
the line in the sand has been overdrawn.
But in your structure, I see a spark
of a cunning, active, tactile mind;
your sunset days will leave their mark,
in beauty you’ll rest, when life’s resigned.
These chives have lost their primary purpose – and yet, in their decline, they are still beautiful. Don’t you agree?