Maria, I fear, is poorly or gone
Her garden stands empty and,
painted tin holds her name against the wind
A desolate echo of what once had been
an outbreak of life against fear
Where of late, Persephone reigned
in splendour and in light and in colourful refrain
Now only weeds and dust and icy stone hold court
Does she watch?
Somewhere from a sickbed or room?
From that longest slumber as
her garden stands in ruin?
Yet not regret that planting of life
That bastion ‘gainst the inevitable

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