Volume 21, Number 124,

Winter Garden
by Paula Brine-Hogan

A pale, thin moon shines over the now sleeping garden.
Sparkles of light, like silver sequins without the dress,
Reflect in the frigid water of the pool,
Like a portal to the sky.

Nothing moves and there is an eerie silence.
Dead leaves and plants have frozen into a still life fresco.
My garden is waiting.
Not for me, but for Spring.

It waits for what comes next.
Though the Summer memory of children’s laughter still echoes
Through the majestic, tall trees
That surround the icy, black water.

There is a rustle from the back of a flower bed.
Perhaps some poor creature, destined by the cruelty of nature
To wait out the long and dark Winter.
In the bitter cold and snow.

I turn away and close the bedroom window
Then draw shut the heavy curtains
That hide the bleak and chilling scene outside
For I too must wait for Spring.