Many months ago
on a morning walk,
I took a set of stairs
and chanced upon
a pocket-size patio
where the resident
gardener had created
a beauty haven–
a collection
of perfect succulents,
soothing, so kissable
in their soft colors,
sculptured forms
and found containers,
arranged with an artist’s eye…
on a vintage baker’s rack…
nestled in a birdbath…
atop a rustic metal table…
each vignette an art piece
in a curated green exhibit.
I stopped right there
in front of the gate
and paid attention,
the only price required.
I took such pleasure
in that garden
I made a pilgrimage
there each time
I took a walk
in that direction.
Twice I saw
a rolling walker
in the garden.
Once I saw a woman
standing at the door
and asked if she might
be the gardener.
“No,” she answered,
“That’s my sister.”
I said, “Please thank
her for this beauty.
Tell her I come by here
nearly every day just
to visit her garden.”
She said she would
pass my words along.
I missed a number
of weeks of walking,
what with rain and cold
and being a little under
that weather
and the other kind.
This week when
I ran up the stairs
to see the little garden,
it wasn’t there.
Everything gone.
Plants and planters,
every display,
every vignette,
birdbath,
baker’s rack,
rusty table,
soft colors,
sculptural forms,
all gone.
A hole in the
fabric of life.
Perhaps two.
I think the gardener
with the walker
is all gone, too.
Ann Keiffer
January, 2017
Image Credit: Google
