December is the cruelest month, he said.
I disagree, the wasteland left by October frost
which blanches grass and blackens tender roses,
yellow sunflowers turn to grey, weeping seeds like tears,
bright geraniums converted toblighted ashes,no longer pleasing to the eye fit only for the compost bin.
white rimed birch branches are transformed
leafless they float slowly denuded like striptease artists
lattices of a complex nature as all the garden bares.
except Christmas roses which are no roses but hellebore.
whose pale heads look down as if ashamed to show their faces
or blush crimson in embarrassment to flaunt her glory.
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