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Closer to the Garden

January 9, 2014

The youngest of young loves,

barely budding on the branch.

The greenest leaves I had yet to see

and promising all manner of flowers.

It survived two Springs before I ventured

closer to the garden, thinking

“Every thorn has its rose; let this be mine.”

Until I saw unyielding earth,

wilting leaves

and found the soil to be unkind.

I have since wandered through the garden,

stopping for a lengthy shade,

but the willow wavered this way and that.

Now I find my oak,

and here I lay my hat.

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