Spring dawns, awakening scents of soft rain,
Falling on moist soil, distilling new birth
From dead offerings, breathing hope again,
As life revives itself from the cool earth.
Even the garden, pruned and hacked away,
Bears its brute defacement with quiet distaste,
Re grows each limb inside the warm clay,
Making itself whole and new, pure and chaste.
In this place of untiring growth it seems,
That looking in the mirror of my soul,
I see my time recede and of my dreams,
Long vanished, faded, lost and not made whole,
Will not endure: I take what grace I can,
To carry on, older, but still a man.


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