The Garden

She sat her days in the rocking chair, gears rolling inside her rusted mind.
It's funny, she thinks, how the days roll by, how now that time came, and I am so weak.

Her hands, they curled, her tears dried up, a vacant shell she left behind. The sunlight through the window met her as she died.

The years came slow, in the empty house, as protracted as they may, till one day a new spirit came to dry the dust away.

She took her magic, luminescent eyes across the lazy floors and built a ballroom out of pines, held tight with a purple door.

The old oak tree was a sorry sight, alive far past his time, and when she took him from the ground, that little house it shook with pain.

But from his corpse she did not waste, a single branch or twig, a fence she weaved, made from the leaves and his brand new branches.

Around a garden the oak cared for, and in the place where he once lived, a garden filled with yellow, the black seeds hard to miss.

The backhouse was crowned with the sun and with the moon, and in the night the fireflies now make this place their home.

And still inside this perfect place, in a rocking chair by the window she sits.
Its funny how things come full circle.

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