Raked over and swept clean
cleared of rotting matter
my flower bed sits and waits
barren, empty,
fertility tidied away
Sifted through by bird and beast
coated with last year's matter
the embankment sits and waits
pregnant, busy
bulbs soon pushing through
Nothing can be created or destroyed from nothing
there is no growth without some dying
no New Testament without the Old
new beginnings come through pain of labour
the buds are brighter for their struggle.
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