The spring time is prolific; the gardener with her shovel works in a dry, scorching heat of the mundane. Youth wanes day after day, flowers wilt to death, slowly and steadily withering into the soil. Drowning into the humus of humongous hopes. Her mind is a wandering hermit, her hands dig deep into the soil partnering the earthworms in crime. Expectant rays of sun kiss the earth, traveling from her face to her bosom unto the just watered soil. Beads of toil drip from her forehead, as if to collect drop by drop until fortune is kind to spare time for her.
Tireless she works on, seasons wage past but her will does not succumb to minor catastrophes. Sometimes hail, sometimes storm. Sometimes jaded she rests her back against the bark of a sturdy, supportive tree. Its calm loving shade nurtures with kindness. The leaves sing her tired eyes to rest with a soothing lullaby. Not one, not two tracing branches many, the meadows change color like a chameleon. From dawn to dusk the hues twist and turn from orange to golden to mauve. As the darkness hugs tight, light melts and the wind that dried her beads of toil, leaving a cool complacent smile, betray her. They cruelly seep in from the gaps of her little straw hut, freezing her weary heart. Into nightmares she dives, fearless still, in the flood of time.
The little observant Robin Red Breast sings her a melancholic obituary. Endless, soulful stories of her drowning glory. Leaves disconnect with life, from their mother tree, as if devoid of a loving presence. They drift with the crafty wind, finally settling on the grave of her being…oh so sublime! Here today, the only place where flowers don’t wilt, no wind whines. The only sound is of her heavy breathing…a reminder of her shovel clashing against stone...digging on that one thing she saved for death after life.