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There is no garden guaranteed to bloom,
However closely sun and rain conspire;
In every hope there has to be some room
Reserved for cultivating fresh desire.
There is in every mind a supple chart;
Yet wildflowers grow within the heart.
Each hope is like a love before the wind,
Intended for some fury, while below
Great stillness opens, mute and many-limbed,
Haunting like a vagrant undertow
The thoughts of those who need to come and go.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems permission to use
provided by the author. |