At winter’s end the thaw unfurls—
snow sighs away, exposing mud:
brown earth, matted jute, a coil of string,
a seed packet emptied of its promise.
The gardener’s tools—glove, snapped stake—
lie like punctuation across the beds.
Rain knits the ravelled twine to root;
wind braids leaves into a new script.
What was discarded reads as pattern:
stalks turned brushstroke, burlap turned cloth.
If beauty is making from what remains,
then this mosaic of fragments is praise.
Spring comes with small, exacting hands;
we learn to call the leftovers art.
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Interesting read.
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Thank you… What did you find interesting about it?
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