is limited to
of my desk
where violets bloom. A bridge
to the outside world.
THE SECRET GARDEN
Standing at the window, in the stillness
of the morning, his grief is overshadowed
for perhaps the first time in months.
Smiling, he remembers watching her
when she thought she was alone.
She rummaged through the shed,
flower pots clattered across the floor
while she searched for the right tool.
Her disease had filled her marrow
and tumors had become massive;
yet, determined to finish the task,
she set the bulbs before the first snow.
Now, hands on his hips, he sees
her last burst of energy peeking
through the remaining layer of snow:
crocuses of all colors, her final gift to him.
Written for The Sunday Whirl prompt #57: hips, marrow, crocuses, stillness, massive, secret, flower, grief, window, perhaps, hand, clatter, and colors.