a rose rose from her roots

a flower, said sponge and left it at that.
what else can you say i ask you, said the next next to sponge and stared at the flower. he reached into his pocket and got his sandwich out, tore bits off and threw them at the flower. the flower stood tiny and still. a pigeon landed nearby and waddled over and another pigeon and another one, both closer to the sandwich bits and snatched them. the first storms in, a clumsy fight, sparrows take advantage, the flower looks deranged. not a rose i tell you, the man said, a rose wouldn’t have gotten through the pavement. he carefully put his foot on the flower and moved it back and forth, slowly. the bread’s gone, i’m trying to lose some wait, a minute here, a moment there, he said.
good luck, said sponge.
thank you, the man said, i will need it. there are adverse weather conditions.

sun rose

the sun rose to a morning and did not pay attention to any details. there weren’t any.
sponge, breadroll and block of wood did exercise to open their meridians.
once they’re open, said sponge, we have some tea.
all cheered and jolly puns penetrated the air.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.