When the wind gusts and blows,
pushing dark clouds across the springtime sky,
I escape to my greenhouse.
There I sit in a red chair
my feet resting on the gravel ground,
alone in the birdsong quiet,
bathed in warmth.
Perhaps I open a book of Mary Oliver
or my journal for jotting poems.
Light filters through the glass walls
nurturing the seedlings growing strong
in pots set on the bench.
The bay laurel waits for her return
to the summer garden.
The scent of basil seedlings, thinned,
lingers on my fingers.
I close my eyes
and settle into sanctuary.
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