The Bench
by
Pamela Rhodes Myricks

     Sunflowers bowed their heads
     To a lady
     Wearing hair piled
     Into a gardener's crown.
     She removed her apron at two,
     And draped her frock
     With a string of pearls.
      
     Fringed shawl bellowed
     In an ocean breeze fanning
     Hydrangea and gladioli
     Kissed by elegant hands.
     Seasoned wood anchored into
     Black iron beckoned to
     Cradle weary bones.
     She sat, slowly savoring scones,
     Sipping a taste of
     Chamomile tea
     Sown, grown, gently picked,
     And brewed above aroma
     Kneaded and baked.
      
     She rested
     Upon the bench
     Surveying fruits of toil
     Season after season,
     Until her long winter
     Three generations later
     Awakened into my spring.