The Garden

by Ruth Marie Brown

There is an eeire silence in the cold, gray morn.
It seem that nothing is still alive.
The dew that set last evening is cold,
As I walk through the garden that you loved.

I walk, barefoot, tip-toeing amongst the thistles,
Down well-spaced rows that once bore life.
What brings me back at this ungodly hour
To the wilted lettuce, the dying beets?

The knowledge that you once hoed, and laughed,
and cried and worked this very soil.
The memories of the blooming tomatoes,
The gales of wind that blew down the corn.

Where is that warm, soft touch with which
We willed this earth to provide?
It lies, unnurtured, in the depths of
What once was a sweet and caring heart -- mine.