A garden of stone that will never die,
Each season ushering in new flowers.
The mounds of disturbed dirt, easy on my eyes.
For I know our newest seed has arrived,
The rolling, grumbling thunder rattles the bones of the small house and the raindrops beat against the windows relentlessly. Just after midnight the small boy, helpless to the unforgiving weather screams from his bed once more, “Ma’!”