Gardener at Heart - Book One

The Seasons (Douglas Fir)


How pure is the line of snow on the branch.

How delicate are the tracks left when the kinglet flies.


In spring the presents are finally opened.

When the tissue paper is torn off—ah! enough perfume for another year!


Now the sun gets out a fine brush and some white paint

And carefully highlights each needle.


How delicate is the line left by the spider.

How pure are the beaded raindrops.


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