Poem: Garden Sonnet

Love is not an economic trade
To budget out amongst the souls we meet;
There is no finite number to be made
Nor capital lost trading in the street.
A garden, rather, tended by our souls
Love grows, and spreads, and dies, and sprouts anew;
Organic crops to make our spirits whole
In infinite varieties and hues.
And every garden has its border walls,
Where different kinds of plants need thrive apart;
Where care is given to where the leaves may fall,
And vines cut back to not engulf the heart.
     But your love's roots reach deep and boughs reach high,
     Forever shelter from the burning sky.

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