They left without bother,
The rake slid lightly over the wet soil,
Not hurting bulbs under,
Next were reedy things with husks hard and grey,
Dead, by all appearance,
But those you must snip, leaving a few buds,
Green within, 'cept for some dead companions,
Then the wet, stubborn, thick, rubbery grass,
No doubt that it must go,
Hacking on hands and knees until it's shorn,
Their names I'll never know,
And when all's done?
Well, life was all around!
Struggled through death, yet warmed in its embrace,
Free to spring forth 'til its death, too, comes 'round.
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