Kenneth R. Merrill Poet Narrative

Her Garden

She was often in her garden;
She was happiest when there—
Seems the marigolds were soothing,
And made less of her despair.

There was a time, if long ago,
When she smiled at the rain—
Cheerful in the face of fear;
Indifferent to her pain.

Her dearest friends took little heed,
Though as I recall I knew—
And yet I failed to act at all
For what was I to do?

Time, it was the culprit,
For it robbed her of her will—
Even so I blame myself,
And am bothered, even still.

In truth, though, it was loneliness;
Rather hope, her friends surmise—
The years were not the death of her,
Failing hope was her demise.

Now others tend her garden,
Some say she lingers there—
Seems the rose is now her heaven...
The wisteria, her prayer!

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Darlene De Beaulieu September 9, 2019 at 5:57 PM Hello Kenneth R. Merrill, such a sad poem. With a haunting in the garden. Have a nice evening my friend. Kenneth R. Merrill September 9, 2019 at 10:03 PM Darlene, thank you! This poem conveys a sadness that far too many know. Hopefully it will speak to them, though I write of sunrise, too. Thank you, again ~ Ken

Sandra Adams August 18, 2019 at 10:41 AM i must agree with Gershon, this one is hauntingly beautiful! you write wonderfully! :) Kenneth R. Merrill September 8, 2019 at 1:06 PM I am grateful for your input and encouragement. I appreciate both the read and your kind comment—stay blessed my dear, Ken

Gershon Wolf August 2, 2019 at 4:23 PM So beautiful. So haunting. And so true, i.e., that failing hope is (often) the culprit. This is just outstanding, Kenneth. A FAVE for me Kenneth R. Merrill August 3, 2019 at 2:28 AM Thank you my friend. I am honored by your insight and your skilled interpretation!!