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Twenty-eight enjoys a busy
morning
Working unabated in her garden.
Each tiny plant is years away from bloom,
Needing now the gift of ample room
To grow before the ground begins to harden.
Yet there is much to savor in this dawning.
Each year the winter whistles its chill
warning,
Inviting her to lay aside her burden,
Glimpse unsought of universal doom.
Hard at work, she finds her inner guerdon
To be the shoot that rises from the tomb. |
