Warden

Unheard whispers, what do they make?

Photo by Simon Berger on Unsplash

Sing a song the night sky,

Sing yet another time, the afternoon fly.

Bees that smell the dawn of garden,

Like wonder, smell the nectar, past the aged warden.

A breeze that blows last in every autumn,

Mrs. Emily’s eyes stare at an empty bottom.

A pit dug so deep,

Where young weeds insidiously creep,

A void that even tears cannot reach,

Nor can words soothe.

Failed she not by luck’s lackluster hands,

But from the wounds of her own demeaning ears,

Which stands firm, rooted to one stand,

From calls they promised not to ever hear!