'The Garden'
It's quiet now, silent, still
As though the earth stopped
to consider
The future, the past
The best course of action
The garden is full, replete
The orange flowers on the vine
a wreath to love
The passion pink bougainvillea
a reflection of the sun
Now hidden
The sky is thick with moisture
Heavy, hanging in silence
A faint sound of youthful
chirping
But mostly deathly silence
I can hear a hammer
working methodically
The imagery of an early
dawn preparation
A coffin perhaps, made
for a victim of life's
misdirection
The slow pitter patter of
droplets, off the roof
The faint birdsong, the
hammer
But all else is silent, heavy
Mourning the thwarted,
tortured path of existence
MM
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Copyright MICHAEL DAVID COFFEY (all rights reserved; To copy or translate this poem, please contact the poet)
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