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Iíve lately done no poetry - or written rhyme of any sort.
It seems that nature calls me to be outside a fulsome bit.
Iíve planted bulbs and mulched my bushes left & right,
determined, when snow falls, my garden will be ready for it.

From the last time I saw a shadow short, but bright,
I have planned for Spring in bloom with varied hues.
Iíve read all the articles of what to plant and where
and been advised, accordingly, of all the donítís and doís.

Somehow, the moments felt to be so full before with rhyme
have gravitated to a full appreciation now of Nature.
Perhaps, this current outlet, which I find so fulfilling,
is poetry all by itself, within confusing nomenclature.

All I can say for certain is, I find complete fulfillment
while plucking out a weed or watching blossoms open wide.
The effort I expend each day working in my little yard
leaves me with contentment as shadows fall on eventide.

Perhaps the written word as I expressed some time ago,
arranged with rhyme in verses, was some effort to describe
some inner craving for a beauty far beyond my written words
while glory of the leaf and petal, from my soul, did hide.


By The_Pip2

© 2019 The_Pip2 (All rights reserved)


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