GARDEN
This garden has met many springs,
New birth and new tales to tell,
Like a child it raised itself,
And all that grew within it,
Learning and unlearning how,
To spread its leaves and branches, now
It knows the gardener by name,
And calls him every so often,
This garden has met many summers,
Where the winds were warm,
The sun fed its glow beyond the surface,
Where branches danced with glee,
In the midst of yellow, purple, green,
As far as the eye could see,
It held the laughter and memories,
Of moments that belonged in stories,
This garden has met many autumns,
Where warm hands turned cold,
Where it only knew those who needed it,
Who never knew what it needed,
But it remained still a garden,
Even as its leaves fell to the ground,
As it turned shades of orange and brown,
As its branches began to undress and frown,
It covered the pieces of itself it held on to,
This garden has met many winters,
But learnt to bloom in spring,
Painted its face with dew
Exfoliated its skin by summer,
Drew beauty from the despair,
Like leaves that fall in autumn,
To hide the fact that it died,
Just like everyone else did,
~Frankhie
