Andrew

You can find her there in her vegetable garden every spring trying to pull the weeds out of her soul.  Picking and Preening she carries on till the sun is setting  low. Cooking and cleaning , cleaning and cooking the life out of her fragile bones.

She holds  the answers to all of the questions, six feet under is where they will go. Like a shark not wanting to stop , for it would surely meet a dead end, she sweeps her guilt out the door , and the wind blows it back in again.

What weight does she carry if any at all ? Is there any room left in her to grow? If only gardens could speak for the voice of the weak, then the fog of the past could  go. No more would I weep for the questions I seek would not travel the six feet below.