And, even on the shortest day,
My garden looks to me
As lovely as it did in May,
Though some might disagree:
They’ll argue that it’s drab and bleak,
With all its browns and greys,
And not a flower of which to speak.
There’s nothing there to praise!
But, in the barren-seeming beds,
I see sufficient force
To turn the most indifferent heads
And stop them in their course;
For now’s the sum of every now,
And fruit hangs from a leafless bough.
Photo by Dean Lewis on Unsplash
December 21
