Summer’s Art

Deserted, you lie on bed of dirt,

Alone, neglected, forsaken;

And yet, you seem to feel no hurt

And no offense is taken.

Smothered by fuzz from cottonwood trees,

Pummelled by showers, whipped by wind;

Haunted by vistas of swarming bees,

Dangers without, trepidations within –

And still, you offer on platter of praise

Your juiciest, tastiest, berriest heart;

As soaking up sun in all its rays,

Your bountiful treasure becomes summer’s art.