My mother’s garden always nicely stood,
Held captive by a picket fence of white,
The blossoms stick out everywhere despite
My father’s tries to organize with wood
Those stakes and fence, the plants they don’t contain
‘Cause order in a garden isn’t right
Plants need to sprawl and soak up bright sunlight
Not rest inside, by gardeners restrained.
As seasons pass, the garden dormant lies
My mother’s small plot now is cold and bare
Winter combs long fingers through white hair
And cold snow falls to Earth from in the skies
The garden, empty, waits for warming spring
As sunlight, life and new growth will then bring.
Author notes
this was written for a poetry class of mine....
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