The brush pile grows
On the west side
Lilacs are uncovered
Snowballs no longer hide
Paths are opened
Plants are thinned
We're needing rain
To make green again
The raised bed holds three glads
Beneath the soil
The spring bulbs
Are doing rehab.
Cone flowers feed the fly-bys
The rocks shade the skinks
Dry stacked rocks odd wood just lie
Space always grows, never shrinks.
Joining Two Shoes In Texas for her creative prompt this Tuesday. Join the fun.
