This Paradise

How long it takes to get this yard in shape for the sufficiency of summer. I bend to make more grow, to keep less growing in this Paradise, this morning-to-night job. My props lie in the grass about me. I shall forget to take one in and wonder often what became of it always in view of where I work. Among the winter- scrapped leaves, on the tangled straw, in the dark and snarl of pine, a violet. " A plant is only a seed's way of making another seed." Is that all, year after year back? Year after year I know not a hard fact of its origin or end, only that its first color in spring is a vivid small impulse of life taking its name in passing light too hidden for a painter's hand. Only that the psalmist said it better than the botanist. Only that I stoop and say thank you. To a flower.

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