A blanket lies over the garden, crusty white.
What remains standing, in glorious decline, is known as the winter garden. But I know better.
Beneath the snow, in the ground, microbe and mulch, root and rot, the crowns of spring sleep.
Protected from upheaval, they shelter. Gathering, to push forth when light lingers longer.
Real strength rests below, embroidered with the deceit of decay above. Winter garden.
Shouldn't...but Do 