She says her heart is a garden when she talks about it
Large, flowing, growing,
And I love it when she does.
But I know, too, that her garden-heart has had a period of California-large drought
Followed by reckless hooligans who ripped and kicked all the plants
And some slimy salesmen who sold her weed seeds instead of flowers.
And she’s so brave.
And her heart-soil is still strong and rich
And she keeps tilling it…but I know that it’s hard.
I wish I could just reach into her garden-heart
And pull out any of the vicious thistle-plants inside
And transplant them into my heart’s garden
So then she would have space for something new
And I could carry it so she wouldn’t
And maybe, just maybe, she could feel her heart start to bloom again.
But, I can’t.
Hearts are not actually gardens.
We can’t transplant the pain.
But I still wish that I could.
But I don’t have the words or the tools or the miracles
In my fingers.
All I can do is listen, wait, and watch
Sometimes buying grocery-store flowers
With the hopeful prayer that she sees them and knows
That, one day, her garden can be whole again
And, in the mean time…it’s still one of the most beautiful gardens
I have ever seen in my life.