The Honorable Mr. Henry Higgins Reached Down

Down into the sward

Raised up a blade of grass

Hoary and dirty in the winter rime

Holding it near his lips he exhaled honest life

The blade shivered

The ice thawed

And rolled down

Like a tear on a petite cheek

Very fresh and green

The true Higgins

Not the one we would like to know

But have to know

He grew bored with his plaything

Flung it back down to the frosty mat

Where it stuck in the tangle

To ice over even colder

And now unmoored, plucked and uprooted

To wither whither, brown and die


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s