A Garden of Memory

The morning comes with smoke and ash, Where once her garden used to grow. My mother's hands lie cold and still— The earth has claimed what earth must know. She used to wake before the sun, To catch the light between her palms. Now dawn arrives to find her gone, And silence where she sang her psalms. The birds that nested in her trees Have left their songs upon the wind. The roses bend their heads in grief— They know that summer's at an end. I wander through the paths she walked, But footsteps echo mine alone. The house remembers how she moved Through rooms that now feel carved in stone. Her voice still whispers in the rain, Her laughter hides in morning dew. The flowers know her gentle touch— But I must learn their language new. When evening comes with purple veils, I light a candle by her chair. The flame flickers like her smile And fills the room with her still there. Death took her body, not her grace— She lives in every dawn I see. The light she caught between her palms Now rests inside the heart of me. Though grief may steal my breath away, And tears may blur the world I knew, I'll tend the garden in her name And watch her memory bloom anew. When spring returns with gentle rain, Her flowers will remember too— The hands that planted hope in earth Will bloom again in me and you.