Not worth the effort

Single drop of rain, an orb suspended
At the serated edge of birch leaf
Hovering there, a falling world up-ended
With its sudden plunge to still silent grief
Or manicured suburban yard if you
Prefer that view of neat monotony
Where trashcans are wheeled promptly out of view
Behind bright shrubs, products of botony
And well-compensed genetic mutation.
No one here wastes his scarce time to amend
Harsh soil, though with feeble alteration
Some non-hybrid rose could perhaps contend.
Those rare small blooms, short-seasoned sweet and plain:
Not worth the effort required to maintain.

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