Forsythia, azaleas, low lilacs bloom,
Mugwort, roses fill the room.
Moss roses, wild lilies too,
With tulips, carnations in a colorful view.
As the cosmos fall like fluttering rain,
It’s not the universe’s final refrain.
Above, the sky grows deep and blue,
And leaves paint red and yellow hues.
In this garden, seasons turn,
But spring’s fresh flowers always burn.
Through struggles and care, blossoms grow,
Their beauty shines, the wind does blow.
The garden thrives, year after year,
Through labor, sweat, and sometimes fear.
Writing a few lines is not so bright,
Each word comes from struggles, night after night.
These lines, like flowers, take time to form,
Through spring’s breeze and autumn’s storm.
The joy of writing doesn’t come with ease,
It grows with thoughts, like trees in the breeze.
In this garden, seasons turn,
But spring’s fresh flowers always burn.
Through struggles and care, blossoms grow,
Their beauty shines, the wind does blow.
In this garden, friends are near,
Sharing stories, laughs, and fear.
One writes home for funds they lack,
Another feels their heart attack,
A love that robs them of their rest,
And thoughts that put them to the test.
In the quiet garden, we all reflect,
On life’s struggles, so complex.
Among the flowers, I walk alone,
Yet their presence makes me feel at home.
Their laughter meets my tears with grace,
As I cherish each peaceful face.
The cosmos fall, the seasons shift,
But it’s not the end, it’s just a gift.
For winter’s frost will melt away,
And spring will come another day.
We walk through snow and fallen leaves,
But in the distance, spring deceives.
In this garden, seasons turn,
But spring’s fresh flowers always burn.
Through struggles and care, blossoms grow,
Their beauty shines, the wind does blow.