The moorish garden is buried in purple heather,
And bright masses of daffodils,
With their gentle petals and egg yellow ruffle centers
Gaze straight ahead, propped with dignity.
Ashen reminders of last year’s exotic coneflowers
Droop stiffly from fragrant shrubs by the fence.
The stone rabbits and tumbled bricks mar
A backdrop of fiery foliage by the small house.
There will be tea roses in the summer,
And brown ivy for the fall.
Look at me, black-and-white patched cat,
I see you by the overturned table and plastic chairs.
Tell me you love this place as much as me.
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Criticism is appreciated. Rudeness is not.