Her Garden
From wide garden beds little faces rose
To behold my mother’s face.
They knew from where their water came,
So gave to her their beauty and grace.
Though rocks and sand had been her plight,
Before wide rich black waxy loam,
Nothing stopped her loving hands,
Her garden was her home.
Somewhere in heaven is a greenhouse,
With a lushness ne'er here seen,
As mother with her watering can,
Humms amid blossoms’ colors and greens.
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