Garden Grave

In the corner of my garden
is a grave,
sunken, shallow
patch of grass
amidst the roses.
Weathered headstone, etched
with faded name and date,
and then below:
SHE WAS MY ONLY
and I wonder more
at what became
of him.

The ivy curls
around the stone
the way her hair may have
gently shaped
her face.
Blue violets and
Solomon’s Seal,
nodding round the grave,
like neighbor ladies
come to tea.
I think she sleeps
content here
in my garden corner.

I leave the moss to grow
over the stone and mark
the passing of time,
but every year
I chop the roses back
and pull away the weeds
to let the sunlight
shift and play upon the grave.

Mary Ellen Seidel
5/6/2002

Published: Maelstrom 2002