Most everyone who enters the Poetic Bloomings blog refers to it as a “garden.” It seems only natural (pardon the expression) to suggest that we return to our roots to write a poem about gardens, gardening, gardeners, or some combination thereof. Not everyone likes gardens, of course: some folks simply hate it and others think that wild nature is preferable to cultivated nature; natural gardens or gardening could be your topic as well, therefore. In any way it seems appropriate to you, write a “garden” poem.


Consider the Garden

What rose
Glances with scorn
At the aster,
“I don’t understand,
Therefore I fear.”
Let every gardener
And every passerby
Discover the beauty of color,
Texture and fragrance
As they mingle
And adorn.

© copyright 2013,  Marie Elena Good



When first I went outdoors for planting,
I had myself a burst of ranting:
my thumb was not green; I vented my spleen
and came indoors, angry and panting.

© copyright 2013, William Preston

233 thoughts on “PROMPT #133 – IN THE GARDEN

  1. Beneath the Frost

    Beneath the frost there lies a hidden place,
    Entangled in a web of frozen sleep,
    Just waiting for a chance to show it’s face,
    Just waiting for the warmth to slowly seep

    Into its icicle-encrusted heart
    And break the heavy, winter bonds that hold
    A thousand captives, each a work of art,
    Ensnared in slumber, locked in cells of cold;

    Beneath the frost there lies a hidden place,
    Now dead and brown, devoid of comeliness,
    Just waiting for sun to show it’s face
    And grant its wish of warmth and loveliness;

    But for right now, beneath the ice and snow,
    The ghosts of flowers wait for spring to show.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  2. Garden

    My great-uncle raised asparagus
    and rhubarb, among other market crops.
    He tired of that, moved. My uncle
    bought the property: house, piano,
    foot-pump organ, walk-in closet, carp pool,
    glass tent of greenhouse. By the time
    I was of an exploration mind, that
    greenhouse was the only artifact of farming.
    But you could see the garden in absences.
    The lot beside the house was like a man
    who never married but has grown bent
    around the shape of some lost love.

  3. Pingback: Gardens for Living | Vivinfrance's Blog

  4. Marie, I am deeply impressed with your offering, especially the first stanza. It could be on a plaque at the United Nations, in my view.

  5. The Beauty of the Bloom

    Glamorous choice gardens
    Splashes valiantly, dances with color
    Making noise sounding spring.

    Rich budding stems give the signal
    Saying “its time, unfurl your coats”.
    Long awaited blooms feverishly
    Showcase their splendor in sync.

    Myriads attend nature’s symphony;
    Enamored by the harmony of sound,
    Appreciating at length it’s classical varieties.

    Those who faithfully tended the garden, all chose the rose, but none chose the root.

    Beauty grows in an upward fashion
    Stretching green for the open sky.
    Toward the expectant eye of the beholder. But where is the beauty of the root?

    At the time of life, the glory of the flower is manifested, and we all embrace it’s flame. But roots keep silent, grow whitherward soil lacking jealousy, flare, or shame.

    And yet, at another time of life beauty fails the green. Choice blooms take their last breath. Petals wilt, all stems crumble, life flees from its chest.

    Peacefulness, silence blankets the garden proper. Blooms lay withered, faded into Earth. The flower has fallen, no soul attends the doom.

    Faint buzz of wings simmer at a distance. Winter breezes hastily awaken, so eager to bring a chill. Humbled roots seek warmth, stay hidden, lying still. Waiting for an opportune time for its music.

    So is the bloom the issue of beauty from the root? Or is the root the beauty of the bloom?

  6. I hope I have not posted this old poem before.

    Garden Delights

    A cool breeze entices me
    as I stray beside the wildflowers,
    their blossoms like orange bells.

    I hear a lingering melody,
    and realize I am audience
    to a bird chamber music concert.

    Then I glimpse her
    as she scampers like a squirrel,
    darting in and out,
    daring me to find her.

    The muse winks.


    their petals soaked in flower blood
    because when they first bloomed
    in the first garden that first week
    they stood in stemmed rows
    asking God the Gardener to give them
    beating hearts as He had given
    the beasts of land and sea
    beating hearts so they would know
    life’s painful sacrifice enough
    to shed blood when these hearts
    would sometimes break
    just as He had kindly given them
    the dew of tears to shed each morning
    as sadly they would long for
    the brightness of the dawn
    beating hearts to pump blood
    that could be shed
    this is what these roses asked
    and God the Gardener was moved
    by their flower prayer
    but He wanted that at least
    they be spared what pain would come
    when Eden was no more
    so He compromised and soaked
    their white petals in the blood
    of His own Son that would be shed
    somewhere in time


    as if their petals were open hands
    gathering into themselves the secret
    of the sky and sea
    as if strong-stemmed they stood
    despite the wind to say their peace
    how much their petals yearned for blue
    to capture the wildness of the waves
    to embody all of what was heaven
    how small was their request from a God
    Who could do all things
    give us the strength of your heaven
    give us the majesty of your seas
    simple violets are we
    let us praise you
    and God the Gardener was moved
    by their flower prayer
    but He wanted to spare at least
    these His creatures from
    all that sky and sea entail
    and so He compromised
    took a painter’s brush
    with which He soaked their petals
    in the richness of His blue
    and when His art was then complete
    He marveled at the way these violets
    these loving creatures He had made
    would bob their blue heads towards
    His infinite heaven
    how they would bow their blue heads
    towards His majestic sea



    you pick the flower moments
    in the garden of your life
    then watch them disappear
    within the clasped hollow
    of your now empty hand

    they’re gone!
    they’re gone!

    all those roses you hold
    dissipate in thin air
    but their lingering fragrance
    can be read in creased lines
    confessing tomorrow
    in the palms of your hands

    every rose from time’s garden
    fills your eyes with such wonder
    but you dwell much too long
    with time-wasting questions:
    misnaming the minutes
    mistaking the truth
    for some dark chimera

    they’re gone!
    they’re gone!

    as you pick from the garden
    as your fingers touch stems
    then close all around them

    they’re gone!
    they’re gone!

    they are minutes too fleeing
    A velvet soft-thorny
    bright and yet wilting
    smell of life but dying
    flourishing, floundering,
    frittering away


  9. Daddy Plants

    I can picture him there
    In the garden
    Acres of garden

    Tilling the earth
    His back red

    Weeding, working

    Calling on his five girls
    To pick and gather
    Snap, husk, can, freeze

    We, often complained
    About the work we had to do
    The fun we were missing

    Not thankful enough
    For the love he planted
    In each little hill


    Not about May roses nor old love letters
    nor mint juleps lazily sipped or sweet tea
    in the antebellum gazebo, a stone’s throw
    from Aunt Ophelia’s magnolia tree;

    Nor is this about some long-gone summer,
    a poem set in rhyme, a strange quantum leap
    out of joint, sad woeful children shaping
    dark vengeance in their sleep.

    It is deeper than that:

    More a gray winding blame that hasn’t a name
    by which we can wish it away.
    Not about roses in May nor an endless game
    of justified means, and nor of running barefoot
    through heavy-rain dreams.

    It is deeper than that:

    Beyond garden and wood, beyond evil and good.
    More a gray winding blame that hasn’t a name
    by which we can wish it away.


  11. In the Garden

    By David De Jong

    In the garden where time began,
    Creation’s glory, a sinless man.
    It was not good he was alone,
    God gave Eve from a single bone.
    They walked and talked with God first-hand,
    Naming creatures in Eden’s land.
    It wasn’t long before man’s fall,
    Taking heed the deceiver’s call.

    In the garden where time stood still,
    Prayers in anguish searching God’s will.
    A perfect Lamb for sacrifice,
    None till this time could pay the price.
    Promised in Eden long ago,
    One to bring death its final blow.
    He knew His fate, He knew His time,
    Giving His life for all mankind.

    In the garden with time reborn,
    The Master Gardener’s glory shown.
    See the tomb, the stone rolled away,
    Sin lost its battle on that day.
    Death no longer would have its claim,
    Life on earth wouldn’t be the same.
    We remember, the words He said,
    As we taste the wine, break the bread.

    In this garden a simple man,
    Struggles through life to understand;
    How one could love another so,
    Sacrifice His life even though;
    I fail His Word, His Trust, His Way,
    My selfish path once more astray.
    So, on my knees I’ll tend the weeds,
    Praying for fruit from tiny seeds.

    In this garden where all is grown
    May Christ abide, His Love be shown

  12. Our Gardening Genes

    For many years after her passing
    my grandmother’s friends all raved
    about the beauties of her garden
    and pointed to flowers they had saved
    from seed grown by her own hand.

    My father was a gardener, too,
    He loved to see things grow.
    During the years of WW2 we
    Kept a victory garden. I also know
    How seeds are started early in their
    Pots and to transplant carefully by hand.
    Always on a cloudy day and to understand
    The mysteries of watering and which
    Green up -thrusting sprout
    Should be handled carefully and
    Which should be weeded out!

  13. Garden Origins

    “Who plants a seed beneath the sod and waits to see, believes in God.”

    The wizened bulb,
    unremarkable as dirt;
    the seed pod, rattling
    in dusty husk,
    its prattling dots
    of promise whispering
    what can be, come spring.

    Beneath all salty slime,
    darting cells split;
    specks of possibility,
    resilience grabs
    hold of life. All
    origins return to us.

    A garden life requires
    a hopeful eye,
    a willingness
    to see the extraordinary
    rise from the mundane.

    We take a trowel,
    dig a furrow, plant
    a daydream that grows
    in our heads
    and in the soil.

    We wait, committed
    to nature’s time,
    to chance and tenacity
    so lush and petaled,
    so formed, foliaged,
    flowered, fruited,
    so tendrilled with longing,

    so very Eden.

  14. Eden’s Keyhole (a fable)

    It’s Springtime again
    and I’m peeking through the keyhole
    of the Garden of Eden.
    From my clandestine vantage point
    I see trees,
    some wide of girth, some narrow and lithe,
    some strong and supple, others barely alive.
    Yet in common, all have a tinge,
    a new red glow and all a-fringe.
    For as the sun awakens them from their winter slumber
    naked they stand, and embarrassed blush.
    And after learned discourse amongst their number,
    en-robe themselves in splendor lush.
    Witness they were to mankind’s shame
    when they first refused to play the game.
    And fearing to share in mankind’s fate,
    and thus be banished from Eden’s gate,
    they follow this ritual every year—
    all trees everywhere—far and near.
    And so have remained within the Garden
    and continue to plea for mankind’s pardon.
    Never get so great and proud that you forget
    how to blush.

    Ellen Evans 12.15.13
    write a “garden” poem for PB

  15. Overlooking My Garden

    A buddha and llama guard
    my garden. When I write
    on my swing, they send
    positive notes
    of hypnotizing music
    sailing through
    the hinoki tree,
    into branches
    of my Japanese maple,
    and continue weaving
    in and out, whistling
    a harmony
    over heads of pink azaleas,
    purple Irish heather bells,
    and wild grasses.
    When they are off duty,
    statues of Alice, The Mad Hatter,
    and the White Rabbit
    take time out from tea
    to oversee the garden’s charms.

  16. “I come to the garden, alone… while the dew is still on the roses…” -Brad Paisley, “In the Garden”

    B’s Flower

    And there I seek
    your peace and solitude
    in the face of an Iris
    that we did Love.

  17. Pingback: Nurturing Radishes and Progeny, (seeing that there’re no simple miracles and remembering to carry on the learned way called love). | Metaphors and Smiles

  18. Nurturing Radishes and Progeny, (seeing that there’re no simple miracles and remembering to carry on the learned way called love).
    Scarlet skinned
    with brilliant white centers,
    she left them to flower
    believing in their wildness
    and unquestioning
    toward the warmed palm-
    calm of Mother Nature;
    she relies on her guidance:
    provide patience,
    instill goodness,
    and impart the learned gifts
    that’re given so freely
    to every generation.
    Yes, all of this
    and she must wait-
    delay her tongue
    in the telling’s of the wise.
    Life’s wisdom must tarry
    till the soil’s ready,
    she’ll know when they’re to receive
    and in the meantime
    radishes have grown deep
    and tall with many days,
    their ways have become rich-
    resplendent in their fullness;
    pods have formed
    and they hold tiny seeds-
    timely miracles.
    Tough husks know
    precisely when to split
    and they understand
    that they’re the very means for ending
    and the catalyst for a rich beginning.
    Crimson hearts
    will soon take hold,
    taught in the tender soil
    held in the nourishing light
    and the cycle of love takes root
    again and again
    and yet again.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

  19. Pingback: Poetic Horticulture – A Message Through Time #FWF | Two Voices, One Song

  20. Here is my contribution… I am not sure if it technically fits the prompt but this NON gardener tried her best 🙂

    Organic Thought
    By: Meena Rose

    No! No! No!
    She savagely denied
    The news that this
    Envelop represented.

    It was Nana’s letterhead;
    There was no mistaking it;
    The jasmine scent, embossed
    Seal, the handwriting.

    Who would do this to her?
    Who could be so cruel? Nana…
    Sweet Nana had gone missing;
    Declared dead and mourned.

    They all moved on – not her;
    She hung on wrapping tendrils of
    Memory around many a wine glass;
    Vines of bittersweet thought

    And sorrow. The will. They all
    Hated her for it – Nana left it
    All to her, the clueless grandchild
    In everyone’s eye. She hated them.

    The air above the envelop shimmered
    Catching her eye just so – perhaps
    Just perhaps she allows herself to
    Hope – perhaps Nana never died and

    It was all a test and she, she wanted
    Her back – the only one to have passed
    The test – Yes, yes this had to be it
    Were her thoughts as she tore it open.
    Sweet Cassie,
    This has been hard on you, sweet child.
    The others do not understand what it
    Means to be a Fairstrider. You do,
    I have watched you since the day you were born.

    Outside with you, Cassie. Go to our swing.
    Are you sitting down now? Not now, dear one.
    Go on, sit. You think I am here watching you.
    I am not. I know you. We are of the same mold.

    We, the Fairstriders, tend to the gardens of thought.
    Not just yours and mine. All thought. We keep the
    Soils fertile. We grow the muses on a tree. Some
    Will be drawn to words. Some will be drawn to art.

    A rare few would be drawn to poetry. Look about you.
    Do you see the shimmer? The faintest of glimmers off
    To the north east? Yes, that’s the muses growing thirsty.
    Don’t hold back or there will be many a poet’s block.

    Go out now. Mix and mingle. Laugh and giggle. They know
    Pain. Teach them laughter. They know hurt. Teach them love.
    They are shy and a skittish bunch. Socialize them.
    Befriend them till they can earn a human’s trust.
    Before her eyes, the letter disintegrated into glitter;
    Falling playfully away from fingers, she could not
    Resist the smile as she heard them call out
    “Look over there! It’s the human muse, herself!”

  21. Winter Garden

    Lying fallow now, the ground deceives,
    hiding the seeds, the roots deep in the soil,
    no hint of spring’s fresh coat of green.
    Snow obscures the plow’s furrows,
    and cornstalks bend in mock homage
    toward the earth. You too must fear
    that deep inside, cold as any stone,
    my heart lies barren, empty, incapable
    of new life. My secret: gestating there
    the smallest kernel of my love lives,
    awaiting the warmth of your return.

  22. Return to the Garden

    I have been too long away
    from this garden.
    I have forgotten the feel of the living
    earth in my hands,
    the feel of dew soft on my
    the sound of birds greeting
    the new day.
    Mostly, I have forgotten
    the feeling of belonging,
    the morning walks
    and the conversations,
    and the sound of a voice
    so sweet,
    the birds stop their singing.
    The joy, that none other
    could ever know …
    yes, it is that joy I have
    missed the most.

  23. HIATUS

    Under snow
    where naught can grow
    the roots await the spring;
    these denizens of cold and dark
    will one day please the meadowlark
    with food and covering,
    but now, abed
    and seeming dead,
    they plan the next growth ring.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  24. The Flower on the Path

    I saw a flower along my path
    Beautifully bloomed
    With heavenly fragrance
    I stopped to touch its petals
    And experience its scent
    And thought about picking it
    For you

    I left it where it grew
    For all who walk that path
    To enjoy its beauty
    And fragrance

    For if I had picked it
    You would have enjoyed it
    For but a day or so
    Before it died
    And when dead and limp
    It would make you sad
    That I had picked it
    For you

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  25. Fine Tuning Trowels to a Vestal Sheen

    The garden shines of opaque hunger
    and the air is strangely electric. Like a virgin.
    You know the sort, they hum and vibrate

    when you stand too close. Vestal sirens.
    And everything seems to simmer cold
    right now. Ice hangs long jowls from limbs

    of white-bark birch trees, branches polished
    into dazzling bones as the wind
    races through the dead and decaying.

    It’s a warning of some sort; even stray cats
    go quiet, their ears search the air like wings.
    The garden is Ligeia’s breath — life

    is buried and waiting like small sparks
    daring themselves to jump from the fire
    and set flame to the world. So I hum the key
    of green, fine tuning trowels to a vestal sheen.

  26. Mary, Mary

    Mary, Mary, quite contrary
    How does your garden grow?
    Right now it ain’t doin’ so well
    Under nearly two feet of snow

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

    I wrote this for all my Northern neighbors. Ain’t no snow down here.

  27. Pingback: Fine Tuning Trowels to a Vestal Sheen | The Chalk Hills Journal

  28. Pingback: Silence is a Cold Garden | The Chalk Hills Journal

  29. Silence Is a Cold Garden

    Frost scrapes the air, it rakes
    through the greys in my hair.
    It tugs at thistle crowns
    that once bloomed thick milky down.
    Its silence is a cold garden asleep,
    buried in mouldy leaf, and beneath
    the cold, faint hope persuades
    spring into cinnamon strewn roses.

    But for now, I am
    that French Lieutenant’s woman,
    head bowed, hooded and caped, standing
    alone on a grey-iced stretched path.
    I can but wait for your return. I wait
    for snowdrops to bloom white
    and jasmine to scent maples slight
    with sweet syrup. I wait. As always.

  30. Oh, Meg… your Beautiful poem should be engraved on the garden gate of Life… !! 🙂

    William… you make me smile… :D!!


    It’s almost here,
    that time of year where good cheer
    and fellowship bloom.
    There’s always room for one more
    and be sure you will be
    welcome to celebrate and reap
    what Christmas has sown.
    Never overblown, just shown
    to have grown in my garden here.
    It is Christmas cheer. The seeds
    are spread freely, it is really
    what every man, woman and child
    should find blossoming with very few flaws.
    It’s one of my laws! I am Santa Claus!

  32. Growing Graces

    Gardens spring from seeds
    Planted firm, erupted germs
    Flowering earth free

    Spelling bees buzzing
    Struggle to describe the art
    Of divine design

    Young sapling trees stand
    Meekly aligned alongside the
    Wisdom of the oaks

    Sucklings and their folk
    Estrange their necks in pursuit
    Of the bustling seed

    A thousand eyes plead
    In greed to seize a moment
    Of pulsating bliss

    Garden explosion
    Of seed strewn in subtlety
    Blooms favor in grace


    The heart of spring lies lost in sleep
    nested within the garden’s deep
    awaiting the sparrow’s first note
    while blanketed by frost and snow.

    Specks of color, promises of spring.
    Primrose pining to burst with joy,
    and crocus braves the blasts of cold
    while blanketed by frost and snow.

    Buried buds on dormant trees, and
    red mid green of holly’s bold leaves,
    defy the strength of stormy winds
    while blanketed by frost and snow.

    The heart of spring lies lost in sleep
    while blanketed by frost and snow.

  34. Fruit of the Vine

    By David De Jong

    I found a garden, growing perfect rows.
    Its plants pristine with symmetrical boughs.
    Not a blemish shown, canopy to root.
    Flawless, yet none could bear, flower or fruit
    In a heap, where the sun could barely shine,
    Grew an ugly, scraggly, thorn clustered vine.
    Its bright blossoms, filled the air with perfume,
    The fruit on its vine, so sweet to consume.
    I asked the secret of the vine forlorn;
    This joy in misery, blessings of toll.
    The reply struck me and pierced my soul;
    Its tale of pain and great suffering born.
    The Master Gardener had sharpened His blade,
    Cut the vine to serve its purpose as made,
    To fashion a crown, His crown of thorns.

    • The switch from rhyming couplets to a quatrain at the end helps make this effective, i think. Thanks for posting.

  35. Gardener

    I like to watch his face light up
    With every shoot his fingers cup,

    I like to watch the care that he
    Bestows on every flow’r and tree,

    I like to see the transformation
    In him when he nurtures for God’s creation,

    And I like that he’ll do the weeding,
    Cause I’d really rather be reading.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

    My brother loves gardening, while I frankly hate it. Good thing he’s around in the summer! 😉

  36. Growing Pains

    Slip me a pill
    And watch me grow,
    Fed-ex maturation
    From head to toe.

    Slip me a pill
    And watch me stow,
    Bones strapped with muscle,
    Yet teach me what you know.

    Slip me a pill
    Cause me to slow,
    A dreamy miracle growth
    From head to toe.

    For what a man sows,
    This he will also reap.

    Life spreads evenly in pace
    At a price not cheap.

    For what is sown is grown
    Taken root, born fruit.

    Kindness, meekness, love
    Thankfulness, patience, humanity
    Peacefulness, forgiveness, diligence
    Cheerfulness, happiness, purpose

    May we mind what is sown,
    That we might not weep.

  37. Battle of the Seasons

    Snowstorms in August,
    Stubborn December roses
    November says “times have changed”
    As old man winter’s breath imposes
    Deep disturbing wintry freezes.

    January offers condolences, wishing everyone the best, hoping for a better resolution of heart.

    But there stood
    A Rose,
    Who absolutely
    Refused to wilt.
    Showing no remorse
    Expressing no guilt.

    That stiff-necked Rose
    Her fighting spirit
    Stands yet opposed
    To the cold of February.

    But she seems to be a dream of dreams
    Or…let’s say…of pristine things.
    Or even being
    An ever-evergreen.

    The fight still Marches on…

    April, just cries and weeps, cries and weeps, cries and weeps again and yet again.

    May exudes toughness, saying “you’d better win this one, cause we ain’t bringing any flowers to your funeral”.

    Jolly jumping June bugs hope for joy,
    Cheers, still waiting for the verdict…

    July boldly declares,
    “Fight like hell, for your independence Bring the heat, and don’t let ’em see you sweat”.

    In the end that dogged Rose
    Stood unopposed singing,
    Slightly posed, for the kodaks
    Imposing her red with laughter.


    Left to fend
    in bitter disbelief.
    Passing days as if they
    were parked cars, abandoned,
    alone. Desolate. Thinking it’s too late
    to feel. To deal with life without a life. Rife
    with what other lives discard and leave for refuse.
    You choose to wander, hiding in plain daylight, a bright
    light hidden, good riddance to the pittance you hold .
    But a seed is planted. Covered and watered; nurtured
    for future bloom, a room for two where once one existed
    You find yourself in a clearing, hearing words spoken
    to your broken psyche, imparted to your heart and
    you don’t mind that he finds you to be the beauty
    you hoped would blossom. Gossamer wings
    to take flight and soar to the heights once
    reserved for star-crossed souls. Holes
    once gaping are taking shape; glued
    and repaired. You have been spared,
    no longer alone and desolate. Just
    a blooming beauty in the arms
    of love’s caring gardener.
    What was once broken
    has been glued, held
    until the mends are
    seamless. No longer
    dreamless, in the
    clearing, hearing
    words of love
    grow on you.
    Not desolate
    nor alone.
    in love.


    When the clock begins pointing to fall
    the old gardener then must install
    some new feeders in trees
    and new seed, sure to please
    the new birds that will soon come to call.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  40. Pingback: Outside In | echoes from the silence

  41. The Garden Sleeps

    The soil rests, slumbering,
    snuggled beneath a blanket of snow.
    Unyielding and seemingly barren
    but the Gardner knows the truth –
    as the Gardner plans and dreams of seeds
    the garden waits…
    anticipating the coming spring
    and the loving hands
    which will wake her up.

  42. Allis in wonderland

    It’s happening again, the demon seed
    of what the French call “false friends”
    is sprouting its absurd fruit – and how!

    I grind towards her, whirring linguistic
    gears like my neighbor’s Allis-Chalmers D15
    at full throttle. (Yes, he was a farmer. I am not).

    She smiles, wide-eyed and trusting, like a baby deer
    straddling the dotted line, innocent of the bright
    light that will soon scythe her from solid ground.

    I’ll be out in the garden, I tell her, with a wave.
    But you hate vegetables, she replies, not unkindly.
    No, silly – playing football with the grandkids.

    You’ll ruin the tomatoes – play on the lawn!
    We look at each other. After twenty-five years,
    our holy union remains mostly uncultivated.

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