Gardens Do

Flowers yellow, pink and blue,
Low ones, high ones, bright of hue,
Surround the chair I’m sitting on
With light of ever-loving dawn.

Some waft odors melon sweet,
Little maids whose eyes repeat
The passing hours laughing by
Underneath a handsome sky.

Some—the tall ones—lovely sway,
Ballerinas prancing gay,
Playing with the flies and bees
Who try to cut in on the breeze.

Hundred blossoms all about
Round my chair lift quiet shout,
Shout of joy the whole day long,
Shout of lovely life so strong.

All these yellows, pinks and blues
Fill my mind with their good news,
Silent words of wisdom true:
Gardens are what gardens do.

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