The Garden

She sits in her garden of yesterdays
listening for the crunch of gravel
beyond the bend in the road.

A hat with ribbons fading
shielding her face
her hands resting in her lap
and she waits and listens.

The birds singing in the orchard
go unheard. She hears only
the swish of tires on the highway
below the hill where she
resides, in a fortress from the world.

Each evening she prepares
a dinner with care for two
and eats alone reading his letters
over and over the pages worn.

When she's able, she sleeps
her last thought of the day, her prayer,
maybe tomorrow passers by
won't see her sitting in the garden
listening and waiting.

© Marcia Miller-Twiford