My Secret Garden

My garden permits me the sweet
fiction that it is my very own
labour of tenderness that encourages
the fragrantly colourful blossoms
to erupt every spring on trees and
shrubs welcoming the growing season.
The profound sensuous pleasure of
greeting summer's succession of
flowers does indeed a pleasurable
summer make. I imagine the splendour
of delicate form and texture, the
exquisite grace and beauty of the
garden a reflection of my personal
Eden. I glance abstractedly through
the windows of my home, and see 
bright foliage filling the observable
lens of my proud eye. At night I
restlessly prowl the garden, private,
intensely intimate, flowers exuding
their sweet bouquet, glowing in the
light of the admiring stars. The garden
tires of my incessant homage and
chooses to chastely withdraw her
alluring presence. And there am I, 
stricken, the garden taking shelter
from my adoring gaze, under a
shielding buffer of winter snow.