Should I lose my way, I'll look to the gardens. I'll not look to the sky. If I scour the heavens too long, I may lose my step. For no matter how long I'd scan the skies, the clouds won't part for what and who I long to see, so I'll look to the garden even when the plants sleep.
Should my feet grow tired from the miles walked, I'll sit next to him who reassures my strength after all that was taken; all that was lost. For her and me, he built the retaining wall. He founded a space to where I could look and imagine the changes in her face.
Should those who speak as if they know, I'll simply turn away for how do you scare a person whose worst fear is realized? He met me below a Christmas tree, and put his gloves in my hands. Years after then, we wore gloves again to move trees after a storm. We wore our gloves to dig in dirt.
Should I lose my way, I'll look to the garden wall where he laid brick by brick for her flowers to grow. I'll sit beside him at sunset, and see the lilies bloom at the time of year when we lost her to remember life still grows.
Happy Birthday to my husband, John!
Corrie's Season 