Quaint Tracks

Walking past the tracks before I cast a sigh upon the arms of my Grandma's quaint backyard, her lavender perfume reminds me of warm days digging the soil to thresh the roots, as I bury the seeds through its clayed womb. In this late hour, my eyes feel her calm laughter speakingto each and every pot of new roses, she owned the moon; it was her throne. I sit on an old bench recalling how we tended ringlets of leaves,a pleasure which grew through seasons until it was my time to water more trees rising higher than I. And fragile like shamrock, Grandma bowed low to greet new shoots while her hair turned gray and thin; yet free from pain. Gatheringa few withered stems, I hear her banter among vines. I smile in reverence--- this secret garden is now mine to harness. Jajosh Ongado for nette's contest My Secret Garden dated 20 Feb 2014