As summer sun rises

Foliage abounds.

Smell the fresh earth.

The fruit of the ground

Comes forth in bushels,

By the ton.

Oh, Mighty Saturn! that it might cease!

For I, mistress of this manor,

Have a curse laid upon my head.
For the love of a mother

The gods have set my destiny

To stand weary upon my hearth

And dice zucchini for allĀ  my days.

Leave a comment