Broken Poetry

Garden

    Red, like blood, covers the roses of my mother's garden. A beautiful, classical garden, where the wishes and dreams can grow. Daily, my mother dreams in that meadow of stories and plots, giving it the seed of life and allowing it to flourish through the years of her walking days. All seemed floral and lively until one day, she stopped walking. Her breath came to a sudden halt when the ice of a lake broke under her feather-light weight and the icy waters kept her from inhaling the sweet, chilled air.

    I couldn't dream in that garden, nor care to make any wishes other than the impossible wonders of my mother returning home. My visions filled with her fragile body seated in the rocking chair that stood in the middle of her lively garden. Her smile and words so wise would speak to me as the bees flew across the freckles of colors along the roses, lilies, tulips, and so much more. I couldn't bring back the dreams my mother had dreamt and the roses soon wilted under my overpowering touch and grief. 

    Now I stand in the middle of death and fragile stems that would crumble or fall under my slightest touch. The sweet, nectar filled air that once lived in her home now lay over with dust and the tears we cried as we mourned her death and awaited her impossible return.
   
    But as I look around, I see a purity so bright, it glistened with gold, and with all my tears and overpowering grief, I cared for this purity that reminded me so much of my mother. I spoke to it, feeling as if it were a portal to my mother's soul. I fed it, and nourished its warmth so similar to my mother's embrace. My mother lived within this pure white rose, and the thought of her blankets over my thoughts as I begin anew. My own meadow of wishes and dreams, but this time, my mother lay in the middle, watching my every accomplishment and growth.