A Garden of Memory

The morning comes with brittle cold, Where once her garden used to grow. My mother's hands lie cold and still— The earth holds secrets she will never tell. She woke before the sun each day, To catch the light in cupped palms. Now dawn arrives to find her gone, And silence where she hummed old psalms. The sparrows from her apple trees Have scattered songs upon the wind. The roses bow their thorny heads— They sense that summer's at an end. I walk alone her beaten paths, My footsteps echo through the rows. The house remembers how she moved— Her coffee cup still holds her morning warmth. Her voice still murmurs in the rain, Her laughter lingers in the leaves. The worn brass thimble by her chair Holds all the stories that she weaves. When twilight comes with autumn's hush, I light a candle by her place. The flame wavers like her breath And fills the room with her embrace. She used to call me "little seed" When storms would shake my tender doubt. Now standing in her silent kitchen, I feel her arms—and break right out. Death claimed her body, not her voice— She lives in every word I speak. The strength she planted in my bones Now guides me when the world feels bleak. Though sorrow steals my breath away, And tears may blur the world I knew, I'll carry forward what she gave— Her stubborn love will see me through. When spring returns with April rain, Her lessons will remember too— The hands that shaped both hope and me Will bloom again in all I do.