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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It was Sunday 'round noon when I strolled, through a garden and upon my own. Touched by the sadness of knowing, I should not be walking alone. I see a young girl pick a flower; smile with the scent 'neath her nose. Tears still fall on Rosemary's garden, as a door stays ajar we can't close. Rosemary's garden, from tiny seed, covered the barest of earth, spawned in the warmth of our hands; creating new love with her birth. Carefully tended, nurtured, caressed, and growing much stronger each day, we spread our lore into her heart, based upon our generational way. Each flower became a new thought. Each bud is a smile yet to bloom. Early thinking she lived in our world. We didn't see that she needed more room. We noticed the buds were not forming, so flowers the gardens don’t bring, and everything died in the autumn. We're hoping a return in the spring. Lost, sought, and finally discovered, scattered wild across a meadow, each flower living free but alone, Rosemary's we just didn't know. Surviving without guiding care, love is hidden and refuses to show, in the wind swept field it is torture, where Rosemary's garden does grow. For seven long years we gathered, flowers that bloomed in the meadow, seeking the bloom of Rosemary, that grew from the seed we did sow. The scents and the colours are mingled, far away from forlorn garden beds. What we feared appeared in the meadow, the flowers turned away their heads. Rosemary is the alias I use, for a child we may have all known, who live in their garden of beauty, where different to us they have grown. We lose them for some tragic reason, asking why, but no answer we know, so Rosemary lives true to her soul, as a flower seen wild in a meadow.
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