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The Garden By Matthew Zepf

I share my world with the caprice of time: The glowing Autumn, cast in plaited gold, Then all gilded in deathly shroud of cold Of Winter’s bent, but the covered field’s rhyme Is for Spring’s caress and ebullient mime Of living breath on the slime of earth doled To give back sweet warmth and again enfold The green verdure of Summer locks of thyme. My furrows are now ever stagnant straight, Paved by the oozing weight of urban glut That munches that which will feed it no more Nudging its maw with clouds of wanton fate Gentle seasons spilled on concrete stalks but Eden’s apple’s left nibbled to the core.

The Garden  

A petrarchan sonnet about creation and urbanization

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