In the cold winter’s morn

I found I was deeply torn

Between leaving the bed

Or staying in warm instead


The wind hurls hail at the windows

When it might stop, no one knows

Bruises form on the tender blooms

Their remains removed via brooms


Scattered upon the garden floor

Not able to cheer us any more

Dying in a harsh winter cold snap

That has the announcers in a flap


You see, this they failed to predict

So might seem somewhat derelict

Not warning the gardeners of this storm

One foul weather day badly transform


The gardens wrecked in just a moment

Paid to the foul weather in atonement

Paid for weeks of previous wondrous joy

The weather now felt obliged to destroy

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