Gloria's Garden

The garden had wilted.

Dried leaves, hanging off browning stems
seemed almost forgotten in their misery,
as they turned towards Gloria and sighed
at her gardener’s gloves,
slowly removed from her frail and shaking hands.
They sighed, crackles and crunches
destroying the softness of their sadness.

Gloria’s eyes mirrored their dejection.
She had thought she could lose nothing else,
that love would be the limit,
and life would let her be.
But she was wrong.
Here was the evidence,
a garden gone wrong,
dying despite her most tender of cares.
Despite the time her calloused and
aged hands had spent tilling the soil,
swollen fingers bent into shovels,
pulled back in pain when they met stones.

And now, salty tears
would have to suffice for watering,
because the sight of death
reminded her all too much of a
hospital room,
all too much of a
dying love,
whispering last words of love
and last attempts at pride,
before his cataract-clouded eyes
closed for a final time,
unloosed tears
destroying the peace he’d
tried so hard to emulate
for a grieving wife.
Widow.

Those brown leaves seemed to
stretch out towards her like hands,
unwilling to go to the white
rooms of sickness for care,
much too proud to give up
just like that. And the veins,
miniature and delicate
reminded her altogether too much
of blue lines
under fragile paper-thin skin
that held onto hers
with a ferocity she hadn’t seen for years.

The stems, bending and breaking
under the beating of an abusive sun
looked so much like a back,
bent from age and an
abusive journey of life,
a back thrown out easily,
one that required a cane to get around.

And the spouts,
the weeds digging and burrowing
their way in between the stalks
were reminiscent of weeds
in different hills,
in a yard of graves,
promises of dignity in death
for the widows,
when there really was no
dignity to be had.




I originally wrote this is a short story, but due to emotions of the MC, it turned out to be a stream of thought type of thing. I'm thinking of rewriting in this POV as a short story, but as of yet, this is all I have. Thanks for reading!

Oh...this is so cute! And sad. But cute! But sad. But...!

Haha, sorry. This is really good, though. In a way it DOES seem more like story material, especially the first line, but then it becomes poetic through the extended simile (is there such a thing?) of the garden and Gloria's late husband. One thing though; you might want to make us aware of Gloria's age sooner. Because - and I don't know if this is just me or if everyone does this - I thought of her being roughly my age at first, someone young whose boyfriend had just left her or something, and honestly I was kind of like, "Oh, great" and didn't really care. (Heartless of me, I know.) But then when it turned out to be an old widow - I don't know. I cared more, I guess. And it seems less cliched and melodramatic when it turns out to be an old woman. Then it becomes...sad, but cute.

But other than that, I really liked it. If you do try it as a story, I'll definitely try to find time to read it, because it was just really nice.

~Blue

This was neat!

It's evident that it appeared to be a story; stream-of-consciousness tends to be less clear, so if you want to make it more poetic I'd say create some extra ambiguity or reduce clarity in places where it wouldn't kill the flow. Not much else to say, you did a pretty good job telling the story here. Just make it more poetic in some way, maybe a little wackier, and it'll be awesome.


Keep writing!
- Eelz

The garden had wilted.

Dried leaves, hanging off browning stems
seemed almost forgotten in their misery,
as they turned towards Gloria and sighed
at her gardener’s gloves,
slowly removed from her frail and shaking hands.
They sighed, crackles and crunches
destroying the softness of their sadness.

Gloria’s eyes mirrored their dejection.
She had thought she could lose nothing else,
that love would be the limit,
and life would let her be.
But she was wrong.
Here was the evidence,
a garden gone wrong,
dying despite her most tender of cares.
Despite the time her calloused and
aged hands had spent tilling the soil,
swollen fingers bent into shovels,
pulled back in pain when they met stones.

And now, salty tears
would have to suffice for watering,
because the sight of death
reminded her all too much of a
hospital room,
all too much of a
dying love,
whispering last words of love
and last attempts at pride,
before his cataract-clouded eyes
closed for a final time,
unloosed tears
destroying the peace he’d
tried so hard to emulate
for a grieving wife.
Widow.

Those brown leaves seemed to
stretch out towards her like hands,
unwilling to go to the white
rooms of sickness for care,
much too proud to give up
just like that. And the veins,
miniature and delicate
reminded her altogether too much
of blue lines
under fragile paper-thin skin
that held onto hers
with a ferocity she hadn’t seen for years.

The stems, bending and breaking
under the beating of an abusive sun
looked so much like a back,
bent from age and an
abusive journey of life,
a back thrown out easily,
one that required a cane to get around.

And the spouts,
the weeds digging and burrowing
their way in between the stalks
were reminiscent of weeds
in different hills,
in a yard of graves,
promises of dignity in death
for the widows,
when there really was no
dignity to be had.

This is really powerful. I'm not sure you stuck to the metaphor 100%, though. You write about a "garden gone wrong." Would this mean to imply that her husband, was too, "wrong" in some way? He seems like an okay guy by the phrases, "destroying the peace he’d tried so hard to emulate," and "whispering last words of love." I wonder at the couple's relationship and the poem's actual meaning. I think, however, that this is a very sweet yet saddening poem of death compared to the withering away of a garden despite its good treatment. I'm wondering, did she take care of her husband the same way as the garden? I think if you were to edit this poem you could try to make the metaphor more, well..., metaphorical. But it was very thoughtful, although I am not sure of the meaning behind each line.