To Gideon
I’m sorry, not like the dandelion’s bloom,that flickers bright, then fades too soon, I am sorry, like the weeping of the olive tree, whose roots run deep in quiet agony.
I wished our hands had tilled the same Earth, seeds entwined, for all they’re worth,instead we grew like thorn and vine, twisting apart with every climb.
I’m sorry like the willow’s bending bough, heavy with sorrow, burdened now, if only we had bloomed side by side, Sharing the agonies, not seeking to divide.
Now the soil between us dries, in its cracks, I hear our sighs.
My heart, a garden left untended,longing for the peace that never ended.
Lonely like the oak that stands alone, I wish our roots had found their home.
Beneath the weight of all we’ve sown. I’m sorry, like seeds scattered and blown.
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"It is in pardoning that we are pardoned." - St. Francis of Assisi. The garden may have grown vines, and moss, and root. The soil now rocky, and dry. Yet; the garden of friendship is never dead. It merely needs the care of mindful hands and it can bloom again; anew.