Patiently, the garden waits.
Above, benches and stones rest, accepting whatever falls upon them.
Like difficulties of life, snow lies heavy on my garden.
Shrubs remain, some dormant - in suspended life ready for the next phase.
Others, have passed on though their forms remain
like memories of loved ones
they stay, blow in the breeze
still rooted there
beside the living.
Beside the skeletons are signs of potential
as seen in the magnolia tree just waiting to burst
into new life
with little care of those spirits
that nourish its roots.
There is little to do but mourn what I miss
as I prepare for spring.
From inside my home
I resist the call of melancholy
knowing that soon my garden will call
and with trowel in hand,
pulling a cart,
I will open the gate.