My garden, in winter,
is a haggard horde of has-beens,
a dreary ensemble of faded beauties
whose features bear no witness
to glory days gone by.
The Canterbury Bells,
their fragile cups and saucers
tipped in effusive toasts all summer long,
billow in the breeze no more.
Majestic Cleome's graceful neck and
violet crown lie bent, dethroned.
And there slumps poor Lily;
preening like a cheeky schoolgirl with
petals round and rouged,
she dipped and danced and pranced
till she fair expired.
But wait! Is that Lady Aster
languorously lifting her scarlet head?
And Daisy, shy thing, peeking up
like a nervous virgin?
Iris, my bearded lady!
How fresh and lovely you look!
Why, suddenly it seems the whole coterie's here...
yes, there's Pansy...and Primrose...
oh! spring must be near!


© by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer.
Used with the author's permission.