Poetry of Fire from the Rock -

My mothers garden

She tends us like hyacinths-
Delicate sprouts, fragile buds
Determined we will bloom.
Fiercely she rips the weeds
From around us-
No ragged, uncultured
Piece of green growth
Would ever dare to approach us.
We are carefully mulched in the winter with composted piles of hard swept dust-
To protect us from
Winter storms or sudden rains or
Frosty unseen chills in the night.
In the spring
We bloom with smiles and sunshine,
We flower into tall, healthy blossoms,
And we dance in the gentle soft rains of her love
Sylvia Patterson