My Mary In The Garden, Still
From the back bedroom window,
I watched my Mary in the garden,
standing there so straight and still,
early that morning,that April.
Sunlight was beginning to filter in,
and it lighted flames in the red tulips,
while April sang an anthem in color,
purple lilacs, red buds, daffodils,
blooms were bursting everywhere,
there in the dawn's early light.
Amid the noise of April color,
Mary stood as still as glass,
and gray as only she knew how.
Even her white dressing gown
looked gray against the spring colors,
while the warm white of bridal wreath,
dazzled so in the slithered light.
Mary had given up color long ago,
and nature had helped her along
so that there was but scant color left
in her cheeks, her hair, or anywhere.
Even with the window closed,
I heard the morning song of birds,
outdoing one another to claim space,
or perhaps just glad they had a new day.
My Mary, unstirred by them as well,
merely stood there unmoving,
as still as the other Mary, the faithful Mary,
the one by the small pond nearby.
But that Mary's hands are always opened,
ready to receive ,and even her still colors are warm,
muted by the years of sun and rain.
I watched my Mary with her arms locked,
as if defying man, nature or God himself.
She was a tall gray statue standing still,
backdropped by lavender lilacs,
red ripe tulips and golden daffodils.
This, too, was Mary's season for muteness,
and she hadn't spoken for some time,
not out of anger, or anything that clear,
but simply because she had nothing to say.
A lady in stone in a garden that she once loved,
one that she often busied herself with.
Enough so that friends would remark,
well, Mary still has her garden, bless her.
And I would cheerfully agree with them,
knowing all the while, I told a lie.
But then why should I deny them hope,
just because all of mine was gone.
Her garden had become merely an untidy child,
one that took long hours to set right,
and any love for it , had left a long time ago.
I remembered a friend just recently lost,
so alive and vibrant with love ,though dying,
and when the pain of his last days ended,
I could think only of the way he lived,
certain he'd hold onto his spirit forever,
and the thought had made me glad .
But I could only feel sadness for Mary,
because her spirit had already left her,
leaving behind an empty living shell,
and it was, indeed, a grievous thing to see.
I felt my eyes fill with tears,
odd for me, at least in the morning hours,
and I knew I cried for myself as well,
on that early morning, that April,
watching my Mary in the garden,
my Mary, standing so very still.
copyright 2001 Roland Ricker
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