When I was a child,
I would play in my mother’s garden.
Blooming trees circled it.
There were lush white magnolia flowers,
pink redbuds and cherry blossoms.
Also, my favourite mango tree,
the ever aromatic citrus blossom,
and tasty apricots and peaches.
Adorned with daffodils, dahlias, and daisies,
and fallen flowers that carpeted the garden floor.
I recall the sweet scent of the lavenders,
how the delicate crimson roses and sunset yellow chrysanthemum,
pink peonies, blue sage and violet tulips colored the garden.
There was a pond with blue water lilies.
It was vivid with colors and the chirping birds.
Today I look at the garden and lament
it has lost the colors
Now it’s always winter in my mother’s garden.
No flowers bloom, trees have lost their leaves
Frozen pond and no birds in sight.
I await the spring,
but there’s an eternal winter in my mother’s garden.
It is a museum of the flowers that bloomed there once,
a graveyard of her hopes,
a memorial of lost dreams.
Perhaps I am the keeper.
Though I know it’s fruitless,
I wander around in the cold, seeking to nurture the garden
I never stopped pulling out the frozen weeds.
But the garden remains white as ever.
For it is always winter in my mother’s garden.
One morning when I peered out,
I saw a smidgen of pink against the white
I ran out into the garden.
There amidst the silvery white backdrop
a single Camillia had bloomed.