I without meter, but history withstanding

A parsnip has no meter,
although I am a foot.

Near a post,
Near a blade of grass.
Nearest delicate columbine,
yellow-burst genuflection:
wet low yard bird bath rain.

Near white,
almost bitter,
not carrot,
orange and green but
dormant summer droop.

      Sam,
I would throw the baby out.
Meter is dark need in want of necessity,
earthy tones of things better remembered fondly
than frontly      .

I made that word up.
Frontly. Now, Sam. Frontly.
Stupid dog-barking meter,
      up and down.
Frontly, Sam,
in my face
acid warmth: like her New
Mexico floral bitterness.

The rain, Sam, falls mainly on the plain,
everyday way of talking and
idiots make tradition natural,
reflex, recollection,
fond remembrance for days that never were.
      Sam,
there never was any Greece, no Homer,
no brave Odysseus;
nor Comedy. That's right, no incipit vita
whoop-dee-do.

There is only a candle and what they call a grave,
but Florence buys the feul for that lamp.
Yes, sam, it is a bit funny.
You do remember your master's voice, after all.

Come now.
In my face,
warmly,
frontly.