Cultivation

Outside a window a garden lies
In it childish mirth rings out
From labor I break, to my feet I rise
And through the portal, I view for a bout
Dicots bloom, innocence plays, tabula rasas without fret
I watch them, juxtaposed with flowers,  I am reminded of triumph and regret
To the right blooms a crimson rose, screaming red passion to infinite views
Beneath my eyes strains passion's fruit: the long-for labored ferric thews
White magnolia dances in the breeze, as I once danced with maiden fair
Orange poppies speak of hard-won reward, but more than blossoms are there
Gazing upon dying stalks
Conjures chances sorely lost
Away from my shame I quickly walk
But forever on my soul embossed.
To the left a bramble, to the right a thorn
That, lost wages, this, loves unborn
A crushed bloom, like young elan, through herbaceous squalor barely gleams
And beside it stands the dying rose, leathery petals fall like forgotten dreams
Infancy gone, the cultivars silent, and yet from this place, I cannot start
The blooms are memories, victories, regrets
The garden is my heart.

- Larsen Halleck. http://thebarbaricgentleman.com/