The bus drivers saw her as early as four
On her hands and knees
Wearing sweatpants and rubber boots
All muddied and painted in dirt and soil
Her head and face hatted and veiled,
From the sun and those nuisance gnats.
So engrossed in her plants and flowers;
All beyond the garden was insignificant.
She dug out rows and paths
That an archeologist would envy.
To an outsider her garden was just a maze
of everything and anything.
But the mazes had hedges and ledges
And rows and sides
All affording more plants, far and wide.

The gardener struggled with the Parkinsonism weed
But intense gardening and ballroom dancing
kept the growth in check for several years,
to the amazement of her medicinal horticulturists.

She simply lost herself in her plants;
Dug, weeded and watered with pleasure.
Time was irrelevant; her age was meaningless; until.....

Until her body gradually wore down and the weeds won out.
Her arthritic fingers became twisted like wild roots and failed her;
Then she suffered with painful shingles as well as the shaking
And her growing season neared its end
After ninety-two harvests; not a bad run under the sun.

Her children came up with the short and simple epitaph
which centres the stone:

dearest Mother,
dancing among your flowers
you will always bloom in our hearts

06/11/2011