The Garden

My garden was once
a beautiful place
where children laughed
and I would dance
under sunlit trees
and moonlit flowers
with lightning bugs
like faeries in the dark.
There were roses
and tulips, too,
and daisies bright
and irises white.

Clashing colors, yes,
stunning and radiant.
Green dominated
and red, and yellow
blue and purple
silver and gold
black were the shadows
and grey the old
but nothing so wondrous
had you ever seen
than the shimmering pond.

You and I would sit
and play coy games
with our feet in the crystaline water
watching the fishes
and making our wishes
for glory and fortune and fame.
The water sparkled and danced
and encouraged romance
and at night, what beauty to see!
We would splash through the reeds
and plant cattail seeds
oh love, what joy had you and me.

But the trees their boughs have fallen
Full of bugs, now, and rotten,
Flowery colors forgotten
and the grass is yellow and dead.
The sickness left in your stead
took the life from the place
and the children now play
with sad looks on each face
in a small park down the way.
What have you to say?

Nothing.

For your body lies cold
under six feet of earth
and the stone marker there
with the date of your birth
is covered with vines;
they're the only lush lives
in the garden I grew
for my one true love, you.

I'm bitter and dying along with my plants
and with you has died my love of romance
and I hope that I join you before too long
because seeing things this way feels oh so wrong
I'm sorry I failed and these things are dying
but I spent all my time in my room crying.
Maybe if I'd gone to the garden and cried,
if I watered them with sadness, would they not have died?

Would you?