The Garden
The garden is mapped,
and nature is undone.
Supplanted.
Keep this. Hmm. Not that.
Tug at the weeds, shift
the soil and sift the silt.
Winter’s rooted dark fades
into tulips and bleeding hearts,
as a skylark’s delicate song
unwraps a silken colour seed.
A quadrille poem (44 words sans title) for dVerse Poets. AI Digital Artwork is created using Midjourney. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023
It's Still Life 
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