Wildflowers spring to life where they will
As, above, the sun sets on my sorrow.
I didn’t think that I had tears to cry still.
This sadness will last well into the morrow.
The flashes of blue and dots of white
Dancing in patches of summer dirt
Nod sympathetically to my plight,
As if they could comprehend my hurt.
A day will soon come to bid them farewell
When they bow their heads in graceful death;
Not yet!—I have secrets yet to tell,
But cannot catch my breath.
Butterfly, flit from leaf to leaf,
Sending my message to heaven’s door.
Meanwhile, I’ll make peace with my grief,
Here on the cold stone floor.
The Old, Grieving Garden
