My grandma prays for winter's end
so she can work with plants and dirt.
I see her now in her attire:
Pink cap, blue sweater, billowed skirt.
In early spring she's on her knees
amidst the crocus, daffodil.
Thin fingers rake through leafy loam
to sift rebirth from winterkill.
She'll scratch the earth and scrutinize
each swatch of greenish growth she sees,
survey the ground metic'lously
for mold and other maladies.
She takes her time to groom the soil,
to pick out pebbles, pull up weeds,
to crumble clods of thick red clay,
all preparation for her seeds.
Her love for Nature's clearly shown
in secret smile and shining eyes.
No other place does she prefer
than this, her garden paradise.
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