Moments…in her rose garden

Moments…in her rose garden

Each year
in early Spring,
she would put on her old overalls
that rose high above her ankles.
She put on ‘his’ old night shirt…
she loved him and always longed
him to be near
even if it be his musty worn sweated scent.

She stepped outside.
The sun blurred her vison.
Still, she held her gaze.
No words spoken aloud, but the prayer
was alive.

Making her way into the garage,
she gathered all the tools necessary
for the labor already begun.

Singing an unknown tune,
she began delicately weaving herself
alongside each bush.  She tilled
the earth, raked tiny patterns
and, as the days passed,
the rose buds began to ripen.

She never stopped singing—
the roses unfolded…
sometimes she would clip a few,
place them in a vase and carry them
into the house.

He smiled, took the vase from her hand,
carried it to their room.  He, too, loved
the scent of her.  She was his rose,
a blossom he never tired gazing upon.

Is this a love poem…
the moments being written here?

I recall when she went into the garden,
and pierced herself on a thorn.
Again, she pierced herself drawing  blood.

Death came for her Lover,
and the sting was just like that thorn.

She wept,
sometimes all night long.
Soon her tears became petals—
her garden became fuller
because of the love that grew inside her.

His old shirt now draped off
her shoulders.
Death may have moved him from this world,
but love, the love she had grown and nurtured…

she would live it all over again
for this same ending.

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