Fielded well in clovers clad March’s madness springs…
Crested hills of pastel stems, hues in dells abound…
Seated amidst swaying rushes, hearing summers onward rushing…
Winters final chill slips into springs willing grip….
Welcomed here though late, as red tipped hawks overhead call a mate…
Thorns of pears guard my refuge, flushing, furry friends to love rushing…
Caring calls of creatures from falls caves, as spring, hopes for summer saves…
Well we’re matched, here in fields painted hues and thatched…
Clovers clad in March’s madness, for winters passing is no sadness…
WAM
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