32 of 170

by Meggie Hardy

Winter, gray and bleak
bore a hope of spring;
renewed, refreshed,
and you came in March,
not blustery, but gently
planting a garden of passion,
resplendent and breathtaking,
with a promise of fragrant blooms
to be rewarded in the fall.

And ever long,
the dogged heat of summer,
hot and relentless,
makes an attempt
to wither the tender reed,
yet the languid days
and sultry nights
offer cooling showers,
scattered and unexpected.
And their fluid tears,
so often misunderstood,
will make more beautiful the bloom.

The wait for the fall garden,
just ever a season away,
is impatient.
November...what promise you bring.

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Poetry: Secret love

by Meggie Hardy

Poetry: Secret love

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