dig with my pen in winter when
seeds of saplings nest and hide
in a heartless hearth yet hoping
and it's too dim for ideas to breathe
under the care of my cynical thumb
Except,
Two unruly rosebushes wild; admired
by impulsive gardeners
daring belief in sweet golden light
everything'd be just fine, just right.
No, I do not dare (Not often anyway)
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