Or Otherwise

Beets are a thing, she mused; all summer Every seed she'd planted out refused Every opportunity to sprout, but Those in flats thrived, just as those Seedsmen 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 in Her greens; made wilted salad; then In winter came across again the muddy half-moons. Nothing is better than gifted beetroot steamed, Gopher bitten, she told herself, or otherwise.