Garden of Eden
They will call her the widow with no grass.
In a gated mobile court, she builds a garden,
fills every inch of ground
with shrubs, trees and vines.
Inside the double trailer,
her husband lays dying of cancer.
She plants for him, an act of love,
a cool green hammock to rock his pain.
Some home owners gripe to each other,
grumble about breaking rules,
denounce her to staff at the park office.
Everyone should have a proper yard with a palm or two.
A small side bed with annuals is acceptable.
Or shell circles topped by a pink flamingo or gnome.
Lawns are supposed to have grass, everyone agrees,
rough sod with broad blades that tolerate Florida sun.
Neighbors protesting the secret garden
mail letters of complaint from anonymous,
someone pushes a threat under the door,
once at the club house, they egg her car.
Accusers call her bad names,
say she’s making a joke of their park
but she keeps on planting until no ground is left.
After his funeral,
she’s called to task at a homeowner’s meeting.
Most residents side with her,
the widow prevails.
Her garden still grows, mute testimony of old sorrow,
a roadside shrine so out of place, it acts like a stop sign.
Passersby on foot, bikes and cars halt when they see it,
some in solace, others in irritation.
Years later, all you see is the garden,
fronds, leaves and flowers hide the home.
Date Published: 10-19-17