The woman with her "Small Garden"*

There she lived , by and large
Alone, her husband , left her,
Gone he to the Abode, leaving her two sons, they had gone too,
To the towns, works took them,
She would tell everyone,
'They didn't want to go, but Works
Are so formidable , these days'

She lived in her cottage,
She had nothing more
Than that one small garden
Where she grew flowers of choice,
Roses, chrysanthemum,
She  had none,
Other than them,
That small garden,
Every morn, the first thing she would go,
To that few years of grass,
Fertility there she nourished by her hands,
Roses and Chrysanthemums,
Cabbages too,
A few yards to live by,
Her sons two,
Walked away to the town,
'Works took them there, they didn't want to go, but Works,
Aren't they formidable these days?'
She would just say,
Habitually,
And the small garden she had to dream,
There she at the twilight , for years,
Had been seen.

(*Note: the painting is attached to highlight and decorate the theme of the poem.
#smallgarden: title of the painting as attached, done by Fred Doloresco; courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei )

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