My Secret Garden

Branches and ivy lifted like A flimsy sort of solid shield, Wind whispers through the keyhole as My secret garden is unsealed, Petals tremble fearfully, Mistrustful of this open plain, Both buds lean in towards the light Whilst trying disinterest to maintain, Sun flares upon my frightened flowers, Blinking from their lifetime of night, 'Too much too soon', they seem to cry, Withering beneath the blinding light, The clouds arrive to comfort them, Too late; my garden's dying, As I soothe it with regretful rain, The satisfied sun is sighing.