My Mother’s Garden

 

My mother’s garden tells a story
of warmth and sunlight;
of cold and cloudy skies;
and of life, death, and rebirth
as a testament to nature’s
ever-changing facade.

When the temperature outside
begins to climb,
the tulips poke their bright heads
above the soil
to paint the air with vibrant color.

If I had to define peace, I’d say:
I love nothing more than to sit
on my mother’s patio,
where I can watch the lilies
sway in the wind, and the butterflies
flit from flower to flower, while the fishpond
bubbles merrily in the background.

The moon lilies bloom until the first frost,
and when they die, and their sweet perfume
no longer fills the night air, you know
Autumn is on its way. Still, the blazing
reds and oranges of the leaves
keep the impending cold away a little longer.

But soon, the pleasant colors,
sights and sounds,
of my mother’s garden are buried
by snow. Left behind are harsh blacks and browns and
silence. But winter doesn’t last forever,
and when the temperature outside
begins to climb,
the tulips poke their bright heads above the soil.

***

It’s almost summertime, and that makes me think of long afternoons spent reading underneath the umbrella on the patio, and the garden my mother loves so tenderly. This is an old poem, but one I am proud of.

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