Garden-Spot

God's acre was her garden-spot, she said;
She sat there often, of the Summer days,
Little and slim and sweet, among the dead,
Her hair a fable in the leveled rays.

She turned the fading wreath, the rusted cross,
And knelt to coax about the wiry stem.
I see her gentle fingers on the moss
Now it is anguish to remember them.

And once I saw her weeping, when she rose
And walked a way and turned to look around-
The quick and envious tears of one that knows
She shall not lie in consecrated ground.

by Dorothy Parker

Comments (1)

Emotional attachment with the garden spot beautifully narrated, Thanks for sharing it here.