The Garden

My Garden When azaleas bloomed and my liquid youth appeared bottomless, The path in the garden was meandering and endless. I sang and traipsed about the sundial, ignoring shadows and rays. And when the scented melody from magnolia flowers crooned common notes, My path became paved and straight. I built necessary bridges and garden gates and was imprisoned by their exacting beauty. But when the air turned crisp, the trail became narrowed by unpruned shrubs And rough with rising roots. Littered with leaves, needles and withered blooms, my walk grew labored and long. Now, the cold encases the thick evergreens that tower above me, And I struggle to make my unmarked way through a foreign, unforgiving forest. But it was my garden, my path, my walk…my way, And as my way grows dim and uncertain, I realize that I wouldn’t change a step.--Vicki Wilkerson