A new fallen snow
masks once grand dames of technicolor,
visions of sugar plums
dancing their ruse
in my garden of
missed cultivation.
Oh well,
there is always the next season...right.
It's like that you know...
I'll tend to you faithfully...next year...
well, I'll try,
you see there are many schemes
at hand here,
wiling away the hours
drifted in and pondering,
new productions to my country fair are at play...
the garden of misfits,
the garden of jewels,
my cache of prairie gems
in unruly, yet planned, sculpted effects...
you know where the scheme lies,
why do I try...
your plan secreted away
under the the drifts of schedules
you look toward each year.
You are the playwright
and I, your fan,
cheer you to the heights
of fame... excel lance...
who am I to criticize,
when all I want is to revel
and roll in your seasoned perfume...
the essence of a nature
unfurled by the drifts
of time...
a season,
a new year
for all,
once again.
