162 :: Gifts


Last spring I planted
a dozen perennials
along our fence.

The fence came down
to be painted;
A baby was born
overlooking the garden;
Winter came and went.

The fence remains down —
it has yet to be painted.
Our growing boy fills my arms —
I have not weeded.
Spring rains have called the earth to grow.

My flowers are blooming.
They give me the gift of their beauty —
and all I have to do is walk outside
and gather.

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