starting over

The garden is dead,

a sterile zone of

brown leaves and tiny twigs.

I try to rake it all away

but more leaves come it seems,

red, orange, yellow, green.

Soil packed hard scrabble,

crusts over rose beds,

a temperate hardpan.

But

then a flower springs forth,

purple white and green.

Hope grows too, again,

a tiny violet heartbeat

resting in the palm of God’s hand.

Devora ( Oct.’10) says, “I found this in a verrry old note-book. I don’t remember writing it but it must have been when, once again, I was starting over.”

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