The Gardener Poem by Sharlene Zeederberg

Taken from us far too soon,
The gardener’s time has come.
And we are left standing in her wake
Confused, aghast and numb.

Winter sits heavily on the garden. All is quiet and stark.
Autumn’s leaves gather in wet soggy piles
And bulbs lie in tombs of dark.

Everything was planted, waiting for the spring,
But where is the gardener now, to welcome them in?

And the rain falls
Like tears
The rain falls

A little bud appears today
It is green and bright with life
Poking its head through its sandy bed
Growth abundantly rife

The gardener is missed, by the plans that she laid
The work that she did and the price that she paid
The seeds that she planted, over which she so fussed
Now bear fruit for enjoying, and enjoy them we must

For we are her gardens, her true legacy
Tended and cared for painstakingly.
And the gardener’s spirit lies within us,
her touch clear to see, as the seeds that
she planted, bloom beautifully