Her Hidden Garden
She painted her walls slate grey,
pulled the drapes to shut out the day.
Locked away in a place she calls home,
No longer does she answer her phone.
Although she has nothing to hide,
she refuses to venture outside.
Her sanctuary only undermines,
Solace, sought in self imprisoned confines
No family so to speak of,
If so, there is only loss of love.
The neighbors pretend she does not exist,
Perhaps they tried but do not persist.
The mail man comes each day at four,
To leave her newspaper by her door.
Delivery boy brings her supplies and groceries,
But no signs of life does he ever see.
A small light comes on each night at eight
And burns until very late.
It is the hours when others sleep,
You sometimes hear her faintly weep.
And there inside she spends her days,
Painting gardenias and blue jays.
Her art lays in piles on the living room floor,
Of flowers, birds, and ocean shores.
Reclusive artist who left the world behind,
Tends to the gardens within her own mind.
Where life grows beautiful in paint and pastels,
The chosen solitary in which she dwells
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