Renaissance

My garden sparkles in the morning light,
with forty shades of green amid the blues,
the pinks, the purples, yellows: every height
of bush in bloom in all the rainbow hues.
Now lilies with the dahlias congregate,
and nod at toad flax, salvia and rose.
The flying creatures eat and procreate
wherever in the soil something grows.

And as my garden wakes to longer days
and opens to the kisses of the sun,
I feel my winter thaw, my clearing gaze,
myself recovering, arousing one
inside who’s been employed too many years
at busyness. My stretch is something fierce.

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