In the Garden

Laurie asked us to write a poem based on Dementia.  My aunt is involved in this fractured, fragmented view. Some moments are good, but most are lost, tucked away. We are the ones, who try to open their memories. I do think her clarity was compromised, when my Uncle recently died. She went downhill. She didn't want to cope with it, I think her brain protected her.  This is just my opinion.  I know no one really knows...  I thought of the book Secret Garden and the stashed items in the attic. I just cleaned my attic a month ago and was flooded with memories.   It is sad to think of those losing their treasured view~

The quiet room at the top of the house

where dark shadows linger

Boxes oftarnished silver and
 sepia photos

where sunbleached brilliance lacks luster

 dust now evades and fills in the cracks

while cobwebs build

 searching onward for the key

Like a gift not open

 it whispers of

lost, cherished words, sunshine and 

diminished hope

all are tangled

bare branches tap 

at the window sill

 warmth now replaced with
 an autumn chill 

Dust sifts

like a kaleidoscope broken

detached particles fall and shift 

dark shadows replace the light

they dangle like

 broken mirrored glass

Boxes of letters, 

piles of papers remain scattered

 dusty faded thoughts with bent edges

trampled and stomped on

like damp leaves

Window's view reveals 

early morning grayness

it is raining on

 the Bleeding Hearts while 

Jack in the Pulpit waits

like a love song we all hope 

and pray

for the new perennials to bloom

then fertile mind will

show us the green door
if not

perhaps we can make

 a new key!

© Ellen Wilson