My Mother's Garden

Remembering the angered blisters, Dirt covered hands grasping the shovels neck. Wrists hidden, buried within the upper crust. Half circles of darkened soil beneath my fingernails. Countless amber sunsets witnessed constructing growing gardens; now filling lives with Color. Within myself and in gardens I once knew, Rains pour down. Downpour gathers; darkened pools of regret and acceptance swell within me. Spilled milk even if returned to the carton remains forever spoiled. Conflicting feelings rise, Earth’s dampened dander nurtures My Mother’s Garden. The beds flushed with blush and colors of life, I stand with muted color; slightly wilted. Flat screens focus light beams; displaying images of a garden now far from reach. Staring into the distance, I yearn to return my hands to Mother Earth. Soil once taken for granted, Before it became concrete. Past printed pictures present no scents. Green blades of grass number in the millions, Now standing taller than I recall. Do they mock my posture? No, They simply seek the soaring sun. The vines have climbed nearly to the roof. Intricate patterns of Father Time, As years have passed they move further from the earth that birthed them, Have I not done the same? They were once so small and feeble. The tired brick wall they cling to still staunchly standing strong for them, Who will stand strong for me now? A picture of my mother, dirt covered hands within her garden. Smudges of dirt upon her face, adjusting glasses sliding downward, Her spectacles inching towards the earth. Muffled sliding noises of the screen door as I step upon the deck. It seems so much smaller now, rather I was smaller then. I left that garden years ago, Often I find myself wondering why. Staring blankly at my hands, My cherished dirt has washed away.