The fabric of my life would wither like an ageing plant left to die alone at the bottom of the yard.

Bliss is the happy garden cherished by its joyful owner clipping the thorns and pruning the stalks of tomorrow’s roses. Pink and red as the blood that spreads from its swift bite. The chafed fingertips and the bare white knuckles testify the gardener’s love.

The winter only brings sadness. He watches the life ebb away from his precious things. Things of green and yellow and soft, plump materials rooting from the tender earth.

To the eyes of a stranger, the twin seeds are identical. But to the eyes of the gardener they are each unique, each serving its own purpose and each becoming that which has been decreed. A strawberry may envy the cherry, but it will never abandon its perfect freckles for the smooth dark satiny skin that graces the other.

The willingness of nature to conform to its nature will never be corrupted except by the meddlesome hands of men.

Oh, save me from obstinacy. But like the garden that succumbs to the autumn falling, falling and eventually facing bareness, there is always hope for the spring. When feelings and thoughts will be renewed. When dissatisfaction and discontent will turn to happiness and ease. And the gardener will reclaim his gloves and tend to his precious leaves.

Feeling the glare of the summer sky and the sting of the searing sun, the garden and yard are one. Opposite in apparel and parallel in thought. The curling mist can only fool this for a while but resign to live in style.

And so the gardener reaches for his thick red fingered gloves to prune you to safety. And there’s nought to behold but the sting of the sun and the glare of the sky, which paint lines on his face and witness his sigh.

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