In my garden, the flowers are the words
I pluck them daily
But they keep on growing
I want my garden to be a garden of poetic works
So, I continue to toil my land
I have put a pile of experience as compost
Around them
But I yield tiny flowers
Too tiny for a mature of fifty-two
Someday, I’ll have multitudes of arces of poetry
And I wouldn’t be there to see it
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Poignant and pristine in the same breathe. Poetry will outlive us and yet in them our inner thought and lives live on in the reading of them however separated from us through time and space! Thanks for sharing.