The Gardens

The gardens where you poured your heart, The flowers you nursed from the ground, Wither now at your demise, No hands to soothe the soil. Petals drop one after another, As if counting the seconds you've been away. Sunlight greets grieving, dying sand, Rainfall no longer brings joy as before. No hummingbirds— Grief has silenced their tunes, No colorful butterflies— Painting the air. Just the somber wail Of Wednesday evening, Cursing the cruelty of the all-powerful being Who harvests gardens before they're ripe.