Last year’s leaves lay in waiting
covering the garden beds.
Spring’s hopefulness nudged me
to tend to the beauty
trying to be born
in the garden beds by the front door.
Be careful not to kill the fresh sprouts,
I heard a voice inside say.
They need a chance to live.
I’m here to clear away the old, I responded, so light can feed new growth.
Ah, said the voice.
Carry on.
Carry on.