The house was scarred and bruised.
The rusted- bike with the broken kickstand laying in the front yard-
It had seen so much in it's time.
The frail widow nurtured her wounded garden as though each plant was a newborn,
Or perhaps her late-husband
At a time towards the end of his illness.
Her worn-hands were comparable to the material of her garden-apron
But the flowers...
They welcomed her touch.
Just as the house, the bike, the widow, the flowers,
Welcomed the touch of the sun
Illuminating each of them.
A compensation, for the vitality and light
Each of their lives
May have lacked.