The grounds are empty,
But for the withered remnants
Of beauty once lived,
Where love once bloomed.
The absence of Sun
Through winter’s long hours
Brought naught but death
And destruction upon
Once perfectly pruned flowers.
The weathered path
That led to the street
Would soon be covered with weeds,
As the silence of winter
Would soon be interrupted
By the humming of spring.
Then, I could plant seeds anew.
But not just any seed would do.
They must be the most viable,
Able to withstand any trial of weather,
Be it the onslaught of snow or drought.
They must be the sweetest smelling,
And diffuse the happiest perfume.
They must reflect my peace of mind,
The musings and arrangements of my inner-eye.
Pity, then, that I harbor in my heart
A loathing for gardening.
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