Won’t you come into my garden? 

You promised you’d come in the Spring. 

Then the roses in bloom, with their sweet perfume, will encourage the birds to sing.

Won’t you come into my garden? 

You said you liked the Summer heat. 

When the bees in the hive, bring the garden alive, and make honey for us to eat.

Won’t you come into my garden? 

You said you might in the Fall. 

Before the carpet of gold, russet leaves become old, and the trees remain naked and tall. 

Won’t you come into my garden? 

The Winter has a bitter chill. 

There is frost in the air, snow everywhere, and I wait for you still.

© AL 2019