Lady in her garden

She can’t leave her garden it’s a labor of love.
She’s there in the morning, hands in her gloves,
and dusk finds her still there, as the ceiling falls.
A day in her garden just says it all.
 
She mothers her garden I watch from across the road.
It’s her little bit of heaven, her world, or so I’m told.
It’s not a large plot, about twenty feet square.
Size doesn’t matter in the garden
when there’s an abundance of love to share.
I’m addicted, I watch from afar
as she puts her hands in the dirt, pulling high grass and weeds,
she’s a gardening superstar.
 
The garden is in full bloom, the colors quite rogue.
The scrubs blossom sublime, glistening as she gives them a soak.
In her garden she holds dear
the memories of days gone by and those no longer here.
She replays them as she lifts her prayers,
a life of good and love is what she shares.
 
Her garden gives her refuge,
there, amongst the flowers, now grown quite huge.
There is a peace that settles on her, of that there’s no doubt.
See it as the magic springs about?
It’s her safe haven, her place to play,
the place she replenishes because she gives so much away.
Her garden gives her presence,
second only to her family, who anchor her life;
She’s mother, friend, committed lover and wife.
She has a heart full of gold,
she’s quite courageous and giving, loving and bold.
 
The lady loves her flowers.
Her garden one can’t deny,
it keeps on giving and giving to those who wander by.
Even in late October, when the scrubs and flowers take plight,
as they feel winter coming and retreat for the night.
Although the seasons may change, and her garden fade away,
She blesses us all, because the memories still stay.
 
She can’t leave her garden it’s a labor of love.
She’s there in the morning, hands in her gloves,
and dusk finds her still there, as the ceiling falls.
A day in her garden just says it all.