I am not a poet. I am not a writer. I am a woman in her fifties who, by the grace of some higher power is learning, at long last, to live the life she was meant to live.
I look to my garden
The withered is emerging,
revealed from the snow
Its tomb for the winter,
lifeless and shriveled
A life already lived
I look to my garden,
see the wilted and shriveled
A memory from the past
Then a shoot, tiny and green,
budding and sprouting
A new life begins
I look to my garden
The bud is now flourishing,
its leaves reaching out
The rain drops to feed it
Blossoming and blooming,
A new life to live
Love elephant and want to go steady?
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Apprentice Editor: Sarah Qureshi/Editor: Catherine Monkman
Photo: LAGreenGrounds via Flickr
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