the lonely garden
Written by SerenaPadfoot
This work was last updated February 3, 2016
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as the winds howled
and the snow fell down
all I wanted was to go to the garden.
the frigid air
and the cold despair
left me homesick for the spring and the sun.
a long distant memory of the precious past,
the rolling green grass.
I spent a birthday there,
back when the birds fluttered about and the flowers lay throughout –
ducks by the pond, and a snow-white squirrel in the forest
people strolling through
a happy chaos.
a walkway lined with leafy trees
the warm breeze against my hair as I ran, grinning, my family in my wake.
I was young, and unburdened then.
I didn’t return for years after.
but then I spent one winter wanting that paradise
hoping to return to that imperturbable oasis of clarity and contentment.
I waited and waited for that day
weighted down by winter woes
February, March, April
and finally May.
so when May dawned I went back
I chose my dress especially, apprehension filling me up
with the excitement of coming home.
but then I got there,
and the flowers were sparse and the soil arid.
cigarette smoke permeated the air
the pond’s surface was covered in grime.
I saw no white squirrel
the sun beat down hotly
and I had to squint against the glare.
the garden had aged with me.
I didn’t run,
I felt no breeze embrace me now
and I left before I could even walk down the path.
that was nearly a year ago now, and yet I find myself wondering again,
if I return, will the garden still be in disrepair?
if I go back, can I find solace there?
will the bridge welcome me?
will the rain nourish the ground?
will the forest take me back in?
will I even ask it to?
– s.v.y. –