Last night asleep I planned a flower garden
For a large rectangular empty space
Out of all the gardens I've never made
This would be my masterpiece
Isn't it really all about the timing
Of the colors and the weaving into
One another of the local seasons
But nothing too contrived
The soil is the soul of things
I leave the weather to the gods
I imagine a few hidden rooms
Along a path leading to a clearing
Where a few loaded apple trees
Await our eager choosing
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