There is nothing new under sun or stars, so 
bleak a plight we dread admit as much. 
Life’s meaning now on apathy depends;
and even that we scarce rely upon.

A rose is a rose is a 
rose, especially if that rose is red,
primary on the color wheel,
predictable on barn or barrow.

You see it in our eyes, glazed 
over and toneless and done with
useless tears. Instead, we let rain
track our cheeks in sham rills of water. 

There’s nothing to do now but sit beside 
old memories: books with cracked spines, the
way new snow appeared impossibly white,
and the cackled surprise of egg-laying chickens.

It’s the last day of National/Global Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). I’m taking today’s prompt from dVerse, where we are challenged to write a Golden Shovel poem. The form:

*Choose a line from a poem that resonates with you.
*Build your poem so each line ends with a word from that line.
*Keep the words in order, forming the original line down the right margin.
*Let your poem move in its own direction.  Surprise us!
*Include attribution (after [poet])

The poem I chose was The Red WheelBarrow by William Carlos Williams. Since there are only sixteen words in the poem, I used the entire poem to form my own.

The Red Wheelbarrow, by William Carlos Williams*

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

*Source: The Collected Poems: Volume I 1909-1939 (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1938)