To an English garden.
Snow, like a newly washed blanket
thrown careless over my garden.
Instant perfection in the unattended
disarray of the long dull winter months.
And gazing from a frost patterned window
I can see the first brave shoots of spring.
Fragile beacons of colour, reaching
for the pale yellow of a lazily rising sun.
And how sweet those delicately
arranged flowers of early springtime.
Jewels beyond price, that bewitch the senses
as they sparkle against earth's bare brown skin.
How glorious the sight; and how uplifting
to the soul, to know that in every garden
and in every corner of this beautiful planet,
the bloom of new life will rise eternal.
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