The Garden

So much depends upon,
A garden hundreds of yards away,
That never grows,
Yet blossoms with memories
From many years ago.

All that fills it
Are seeds that never awoken,
Never growing into the promised fruit,
Only into sour strawberries
Tangled into the vines
Of the cantaloupes
That refused to ripen.

The seeds we collected
And planted with ease
Would only result in
Being thrown in the bin
Along with another years work
And the hope of a successful years harvest
Down the drain.

Every year, every season,
Never more than a handful successes
Never enough to feed a family
Let alone fill a plate.

Yet this garden I cherish,
And hold in my heart,
A disaster that always failed
Yet would always start.

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