Beets Are a Thing

Beets are a thing, she mused; all summerEvery seed she'd planted out refusedEvery opportunity to sprout, but Those in flats thrived, just as thoseSeedsmen told her they would not.
As for after they were transplanted, well!Rare was the beet that was not found by gophers.Even so, some were left not quite finished
As the gophers waddled away, and
Those she was grateful for. She brought inHer greens; made wilted salad; thenIn winter came across again the muddy half-moons.Nothing is better than gifted beetroot steamed,Gopher bitten, she told herself, or otherwise.