Leaving the Garden

Aimless hours cloak the air

in the withering flower’s awakening.

she is stilled

by the panic inside her,

the tapestry of beauty

that surrounds her

hung in rich plums, hot purples,

cool creams and straw baskets.

She closes her petals

against the tormenting chirps

of fluffy ducks who tell her

that she was new too

and remembers backwards

to when the robin’s egg

sparkled bluer than the sky,

a pruning hand in early spring

was welcome

and the first frost of fall

did not intimidate her

for she knew

she would blossom again.

Now she pulls the dewy curtain

as the wind blows her

through the gateway

of the garden,

as she reminds me

of mother.

©--Christina Cowling