Flowers,
colours,
but winter is just grey,
cold,
wet,
even with snow,
they all create apparent ruin,
but not quite;
when spring comes all hidden treasures appear,
another display of life,
colour after colour,
but, oh dear, there is also work,
work of the real gardener,
the instant garden can only be money based,
the other relies on patience, understanding,
and the outcome of many thoughts and plans,
yes, there is a reward,
it is pleasing and ever-changing,
the cycle goes on,
from colour to colour,
to become again the winter grey,
time of rest and hope of a new beginning.
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Author:
Danieloptera (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 29th, 2022 03:29
- Comment from author about the poem: My experience as a gardener.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments2
Only a gardener knows the work , care and patience that's needed to grow a garden and the gardener alone cherishes the true rewards that he/she reaps with the changing seasons 🥰
I understand so well tje points your verse makes on gardens and their care in every season. The benefits however are outstanding for in English gardens the colours appearing as early as Spring are so good for the soul and deserve every praise. Thank you my friend for this fine and needed reminder,
Thsnk you for your positive comments.
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