Leftovers Poem by James McLain

That which drips over the moon,
can not be any thing other than what it is.
Is it why so many hours are wasted trying
too metaphorically.
Still you think about you, about it,
and you know each comet released, is as new
and fresh as the asparagus that you grew.
While he never wasted much time,
trying to grow cherry trees in the south,
where the weather
is simply too inclement.
Being that which it is, fresh snow can wash it off.