16 Aug 2015

Eleven Garden Seasons Later: Remembering my Grandmother

A ripple in the fabric of time
and I am back on her property,
the green and white board and batten house
surrounded by gardens.

Roses that climbed toward the sun,
Zinnia and marigold nodding their heads
in the gentle breeze that carried
the heady fragrance of peonies.

This is where the green residue
coated my childhood skin,
embracing me in a cocoon that would
one day burst forth

Reminding me that it was there,
in that magical Eden that
I was the safest and happiest
that I have ever been.

A gentle breeze and time
shifts yet again,
and I realize that the past
lives only in my heart,

And yet here in my own garden
I find  myself surrounded by
that same feeling - 

one of safety and solitude,
where I can glance upon some
of the same flowers,
all these years later and reminisce:

The exquisite beauty of an
Asian Jack-in-the-Pulpit,
a distant cousin to those same ones that
she introduced me to forty five Springs ago.

Today marks eleven garden seasons that have
 passed since she took leave,
and yet she is here, every year,
as the first signs of green make themselves
visible - and she remains here until the
snow blankets the garden.

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