I stole into your garden
and watched you cry.
Not a wailing or a wrung-out face
but stone white, a miming of misery
on a soft autumn day.
So caught up in misery,
the natural fading choked the air.
Nothing, nothing could
hold back those tears except an iron will.
Your tears did not have the comfort
of downpour but only a continual rising
that blurred and burned
till I cried out. And you looked --
but past me to days ahead
and the miseries that would be there.
So the winter that is coming
will never leave.
And I began to comprehend
what grief can do to a garden.
What love can and can not do.
If you've any comments on her poem, L.
Fullington would be pleased to hear