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The Garden Path

Meandering from the screened-porch door
And through a grove of trees
The garden path calls out to all
The child, the birds, the bees.

Its stones are aged, and flocked with moss
And fragrant creeping thyme;
They’ve guided many footsteps through
The flowering vines that climb

´Midst Holly, Hawthorn, Alder bush,
Lush lavender and fern
To find a secret cubicle
And pass the time and yearn

For slower times and longer days
To stop and smell the blooms,
That now profusely grace the limbs
Of Nana’s Spanish brooms.

The winding path now takes a turn
There is a splash, a pause;
The koi have sensed a presence there;
Their mouths reach up like straws

To take a morsel thrown their way.
Swimming to and fro
´Neath lemon balm and Columbine
Where water lilies grow.

Hastening now as daylight wanes
The path ascends a hill;
Curving gently left, then right
The earth is cool and still;

While scented Stock and Campion
Unfurl their dusk display
The path leads back to whence it came
Until another day.

–Dianne Capell

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