I tend a garden of widows.
I’ve not planted a single one,
but there they grow,
one or two new ones every few seasons,
their numbers and frequency
only climbing as I age.

Stop by, won’t you?
Water one with me,
pull the weeds from around her swollen ankles,
help me direct the sun to her tired face.
Stay, visit. Enjoy her fragrance
for a bit.

In time, they’ll fade.
These widows of mine will have to wilt,
will have to wither—
but without fear, for they will blossom anew
in someone else’s garden!

In a grove of newlyweds, or grandmothers,
or simply independent women,
these widows of mine will find
their newest callings.
Their widowhoods will end
as the years go by,
falling off into memories of other lives once lived.

Losing them is bittersweet.
But truly, I tend them as I do
not to prolong their lives in my garden
but to make their stays more bearable,
for where is there for a widow to go
but into a row of my garden?
And there must be nothing lonelier
than growing in a garden of widows.

07/10/2006

Posted on 12/08/2006
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